Wayne — The entire point of the Road Hole at St. Andrews is to confuse and interrogate the golfer. To inflict undue decision-making, struggle and demands. That is what makes the Road Hole so bloody difficult, hard to master and down-right maddening. The player who attacks the Road Hole only once comes away with not a solution, but rather a temporary understanding that may be satisfying, but likely not. It was probably a bogey or worse on this first encounter.
Now, before Ran's web alert meter goes off the scale with posts about how I am comparing No. 7 at Peacock to the Road Hole, let me say that I am not directly comparing anything more than the psychology of the design. Both holes intentionally confuse and set up obstacles, both physical and mental. The Road Hole does this in a stellar environment with a series of odd obstacles, not many of which would ever be accepted anywhere except there. My little No. 7 does this in San Rafael, slightly off the beaten path of the Golf Gods, several of which have never even driven through China Beach State Park.
No. 7 at Peacock is a short, little maddening hole with unusual and downright unique characteristics. I hardly see how you or anyone else could not help but love it to death, for it reaches out with its short and virgin tentacles of newly planted grass, asking not for your love, but for your understanding. It is a tiny and odd hole, but one clearly in need of TLC on your part. For you can control him (her?), but only when you figure out what the hell he (she?) is asking of you. And, that my television-minded RGB and color bar friend, is something you will never figure out until you play him (her?) a few more times and reach your own (more well crafted) conclusion, knowing full well that your conclusion has nothing at all to do with the conclusions of others, as they will develop their own relationship with No. 7 and it will be a matter of great personal triumph to them, just as it will already have been to you.
Now, why did I do what I did there? It is a book. I cannot possibly divulge it all here for that would be a waste of time. Only you and a few buddies would read it, and probably only the juicy bits when I began to make the leap from sex to golf and anatomy to contours.
So, just play it again Sam — err, Wayne.