Fifty Degrees Below - Kim Stanley Robinson [15]
“Except they don’t,” the first vet scoffed.
“Yeah it’s a finicky sport. Like fucking golf, you know.”
Down the path Frank could see the runners picking up their frisbees and stopping for only a moment before throwing again.
“How often do they come here?”
“A lot!”
“You can ask them, they’ll be back in a while. They run the course forward and back.”
They sat there, once or twice hearing the runners call out. Fifteen minutes later the men did indeed return, on the path they had left.
Frank said to the dreadlocked one, “Hey, can I follow you and learn the course?”
“Well sure, but we do run it, as you see.”
“Oh yeah that’s fine, I’ll keep up.”
“Sure then. You want a frisbee to throw?”
“I’d probably lose it.”
“Always possible out here, but try this one. I found it today, so it must be meant for you.”
“Okay.”
Like any other climber, Frank had spent a fair amount of camp time tossing a frisbee back and forth. He much preferred it to hackysack, which he was no good at. Now he took the disk they gave him and followed them to their next tee, and threw it last, conservatively, as his main desire was to keep it going straight up the narrow fairway. His shot only went half as far as theirs, but he could see where it had crashed into the overgrown grass, so he considered it a success, and ran after the others. They were pretty fast, not sprinting but moving right along, at what Frank guessed was about a seven-minute–mile pace if they kept it up; and they slowed only briefly to pick up their frisbees and throw them again. It quickly became apparent that the slowing down, throwing, and starting up again cost more energy than running straight through would have, and Frank had to focus on the work of it. The players pointed out the next target, and trusted he would not clock them in the backs of their heads after they threw and ran off. And in fact if he shot immediately after them he could fire it over their heads and keep his shot straight.
Some of the targets were trash cans, tree trunks, or big rocks, but most were metal baskets on metal poles, the poles standing chest high and supporting chains that hung from a ring at the top. Frank had never seen such a thing before. The frisbee had to hit the chains in such a way that its momentum was stopped and it fell in the basket. If it bounced out it was like a rimmer in golf or basketball, and a put-in shot had to be added to one’s score.
One of the players made a putt from about twenty yards away, and they all hooted. Frank saw no sign they were keeping score or competing. The dreadlocked player threw and his frisbee too hit the chains, but fell to the ground. “Shit.” Off they ran to pick them up and start the next hole. Frank threw an easy approach shot, then tossed his frisbee in.
“What was par there?” he asked as he ran with them.
“Three. They’re all threes but three, which is a two, and nine, which is a four.”
“There’s nine holes?”
“Yes, but we play the course backward too, so we have eighteen. Backward they’re totally different.”
“I see.”
So they ran, stopped, stooped, threw, and took off again, chasing the shots like dogs. Frank got into his running rhythm, and realized their pace was more the equivalent of an eight- or nine-minute mile. He could run with these guys, then. Throwing was another matter, they were amazingly strong and accurate; their shots had a miraculous quality, flying right to the baskets and often crashing into the chains from quite a distance.
“You guys are good!” he said at one tee.
“It’s just practice,” the dreadlocked one said. “We play a lot.”
“It’s our religion,” one of the others said, and his companions cackled as they made their next drives.
Then one of Frank’s own approach shots clanged into the chains and dropped straight in, from about thirty yards out. The others hooted loudly in congratulation.
On his next approach he focused on throwing at the basket, let go, watched