Tournament

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The road was two-lane concrete through scrub country, and his headlights picked up sparse rough grass on the shoulders, stunted trees farther back. It was a secondary road and Flagg had taken it because the map showed that it would cut an hour off his time. An hour less of driving time meant an hour more of sleep. An hour of sleep meant a bit more repair to muscles wearied by the brute fairways of that last tournament, to nerves stretched and tortured and made brittle by the last three dismal showings that were turning this tour from farce into heartbreak.

He drove the big convertible mercilessly, leaning a bit forward, holding the wheel firmly, feeling the momentary weightlessness when the car went over the rises in the road. There was little traffic and the towns were far apart. He sensed that he was pushing the car too fast for safety, yet it was not fast enough. Not nearly fast enough to leave behind him the memories of the past few weeks.

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