Here's what I'm doing today: taking a walk. It's as pure as it sounds. Almost.

I've got to drive most the way 128 as it circles Boston. Call it 45 miles. This'll take an hour or two in each direction. In my roaring, 2005 Nissan Altima. If I remember, there'll be a bluetooth speaker to pump some tunes over the roar of the broken muffler. I'll have some snacks and about 20 pounds of golf clubs. Why? Because my walk will be around the rightward edges and lightly forested areas of one of our historic, municipal golf courses.

In a purer world, you could just take the day off and go for a five hour walk with a few of your pals. There would be no fee, no traffic on the road, and no up-all-night-regripping your clubs. But we don't live in that world.

In this world, we need some madness as an excuse to bring us together. We need to gamble and drink alcohol and say rude things about each other. And, after the golfing starts, we need to be endlessly frustrated at our personal failures to execute the heroic escape from trees or ditches. We need to feel the pain of finding each fresh golfing hole newly spoiled by our slicing and flailing and flubbing. It's going to be about 45 degrees, so we'll complain about that, too. I'll probably shoot an angry 105. I cannot wait.

Sometime after I have given up hope, usually after the first three hours are long gone, I will hit one really solid golf shot. It could be from a sand pit or behind a tree or with my eyes closed, but it will be pure and good. I'll see, for the first time, the ball going exactly where I envisioned it would and I will rejoice. I will have no idea what caused it to do so; nothing will have been any different from the ninety-odd other horrible attempts. I will experience this solid shot first as a gift, a sort of goodness that only shows up when you don't expect it. But then, in retrospect, I'll think of the entire time as that one pure  moment. The game is an epic con, a deceitful interweave of one golden strand into a rug of straw. But you bet I will come back next time, searching again for that pure moment.

You can file this week's reading under "keeps pestering Nathanael." I'm not sure why this piece resonated with me: I don't travel all that much and I've never gone on the sort of walking trip the author recommends. There's something about the simplicity of Neil King Jr.'s travel that contrasts, favorably with most itineraries. One time, he walked from DC to NYC. There's nothing in the piece, but I'll bet when he walks locally, he totes along a golf bag.

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