Most Caddies fly cross-country these days, but the end of the West Coast swing in Los Angeles used to be the start of the Tour's Great Race. The minute your player finished the final round at Riviera, you got in a car and drove to Doral, in Miami, fast enough to get there in time for a Tuesday afternoon practice round. That's 2,800 miles in less than 48 hours, which took tag-team driving with stops only for gas and gas-inducing rations. I recall going with Jimmy Sullivan, a European tour caddie who mistook U.S. highways for the autobahn. I would drive the easy first leg to Phoenix, then say a prayer and lie down while Jimmy did his impression of the 24 Hours of Le Mans. If I wasn't rousted by a state trooper who had pulled us over, I'd wake up on Monday afternoon somewhere in Louisiana with Jimmy still bearing down like Stirling Moss. Another caddie, Greg (the Piddler) Martin, tried to pull a Sullivan-like shift and ended up hitting a horse in New Mexico. Believe me, he's had no better luck with horses at the track.