Comparison Tests
It’s tempting to categorize Alabama as the state where it’s most acceptable to dump your busted refrigerator in the woods. Instead, what you’ll find in the cypress forests—apart from hand-carved odes to Bear Bryant and factories built by Hyundai, Mercedes-Benz, Honda, and Toyota—are 468 holes on 26 azalea-laden golf courses (at 11 locations) open to the public, none far from Interstate 65. From Huntsville in the north to Mobile on the Gulf, these diabolical links were the handiwork of Robert Trent Jones, the only gent we know who was born in Ince-in-Makerfield, England.
Jones believed in a “hard par” and possibly a hard drink. During his 93 years, a span in which he designed or remodeled nearly 500 courses, Jones got his name hopelessly entwined with pal and golf legend Bobby Jones as well as son and course designer Robert Trent Jones Jr. So it’s okay if you think you’ve heard of him but aren’t sure.
In any event, the Robert Trent Jones Golf Trail represents the largest construction project in the history of golf, possibly surpassing the restoration work on Tiger Woods’s reputation, and the tab will only rise after the greenskeepers discover the divots we inflicted. On 9 of the 11 courses, 18 holes costs a low of $45 to a high (in peak season) of $64—cheap shots, for sure—but the courses will test your patience. Witness the 9-iron that managing editor Steve Spence hurled solidly into a pine tree, leaving a lasting impression on both Mother Nature and his colleagues’ psyches. Famed golfer Alice Cooper said of the Capitol Hill course (one of three we damaged), “It ripped my handicap to pieces,” although Mr. Cooper might better attend to other of his handicaps.
Indeed, Robert Trent Jones was something of a masochist, fond of Scottish link–style 40-foot mounds, doglegs that would cripple Lassie, Spanish moss deployed as camouflage, bunkers the size of the average Caribbean beach, Cousteau-quality water hazards, and, on one course, a 92-yard-long green. A trail of 9-iron tears.
And, so, for our golfing adventure, we acquired four above-par sedans whose buyers comprise a demographic—and we mean this in a nice way—pretty much identical to your average public-course golfer’s. Which is to say, they’re all near-luxury sedans that, in the rough (ha-ha), lay up (laugh out loud) in the $39,000 driving range (we’re killing ourselves), all with 24-valve, dual-overhead-cam V-6s and all riding on M+S rubber.
This foursome seemed neatly linked to the links, so please don’t start asking about other contenders. The Chrysler 300, for instance, was invented way, way back in the Schrempp cocktail epoch. We couldn’t locate a sub-40-grand Acura TL; plus, its new nose would cause the entire LPGA to lose concentration. And vile and deeply personal arguments erupted over the Nissan Maxima, suggesting that (a) it was too small (untrue); (b) it was a torque-steering maniac (true); (c) its standard CVT wasn’t anything a golfer would recognize or care to operate (maybe); and (d) it would ruin our incredibly clever headline, “Fore for Four” (true again).
A brochure for the Trail warned, “Appropriate dress required.” Instead of wearing dresses, we approached clothier LoudMouth Golf apparel, which graciously attired us (and John Daly) loudly. One of the company’s outfits is called “Disco Balls.” Fellow golfers rudely took photos of us. One asked, “Do you know the Alabama saying, ‘Whoop, whoop, git it, git it’?” We did not.
