The machismo chuff of an over-fucked-with car cracking across the sticky Florida air is precisely the sort of metaphor that we’ve been looking for.

I am here to compete, (technically the truth), but more than anything, I am here to see exactly what this particular armpit of the PDGA looked like in person.

That’s not to say that Orlando itself is an armpit, per se, but I certainly wouldn’t interject if anyone else made that suggestion.

It’s August and that’s not on purpose.  This, like the Tokyo Olympics, was the victim of some nefarious  viral scourge that Orlando, like Tokyo, remains rather inundated with. 

And yes, it is hot. And it’s humid in ways that we wouldn’t wish on any living thing.  This is not ideal, but it sure does add a very “Jurassic Park” mystique to courses like the gem at Palmetto Point Park.

This doesn’t absolve us of the misery, however, nor does it provide any of the vacation vibes that Florida has built their entire identity upon.  

We’re not tourists. We’re marathon runners.  We’re de facto endurance athletes.  No Space Mountain, just sweat mounting.

And that’s why the winner is likely to be someone who can’t legally pop a bottle of champagne on the podium; mask or no mask.

The fresh-oil-change, new-tires crowd is here to say they did it, and god bless ‘em.

But.

The loud, unkempt and unbridled machines are going to cross the finish line first.  For them, there is no consideration for gas mileage or economy.  There is no concern about burnout.  This is a  disc golf drag race for the high octane, turbo charged, machismo children who sit atop the various leaderboards.  

This is their chuff. This is their macho moment.  They will be loud this weekend, and that’s not any fault of their own.  They know no better, and that’s perfect.