Nothing like it on record. The temperatures 107, 109, 112. Golfers outside the United Arab Emirates may be unfamiliar with such conditions.

Would you believe metal club heads not just warm to the touch, but hot, like pot handles left too close to the heat?

It's as if someone set the broiler on 450. You slowly baste, well marinated with sunscreen, in a three-dimensional rotisserie for four and a half hours. God help the man who leaves a club behind. A lost towel or glove? Forget about it. Not worth doubling back.

The psychological torment is palpable, ratcheted up by the absurdity of venturing out into such an inhospitable environment. Self-reproach festers. Who cares? Who really cares? The spirit, always on edge in golf, wilts, drought-stricken. I can only suspect that the wanderings of the mind must be similar to what the poor fellow sitting in a pot surrounded by dancing cannibals would be thinking.

One shot is hardly better than the next. Focus becomes blurred, attention span weakened. A warm glowing sheen of heat blows across the golf course. Where did that go? Who cares? Keep moving. I recall once hitting a shot to a par three during a round in summertime Dallas. I walked over the green and down a hill, listlessly scouring the rough. Finally giving up, I hiked back to the green to find my ball laying fifteen feet from the hole. A mirage?

On the plus side, drink all you want without feeling Nature's call. There was a round played in appallingly humid conditions near Houston in July. My elderly companion - we were riding - downed 18 beers in 18 holes (Coors Lites). He showed no signs of inebriation, at least no more than normal, and his game actually displayed wisps of brilliance down the stretch.

The trick, of course, is to get out early. There are golfers who dress in the dark and tee off at dawn, a pleasant if unholy time best reserved for joggers and garbage pickup. Why it's so early, the greens haven't even started smoldering. Dew sweepers enjoy a fast round and premium parking; golf played in that quiet somnambulant state that writers and sports shrinks believe holds the key to parlaying the subconscious.

These golfers also have the rest of the day. The whole day to get to those projects. . .

But to really get the full searing effect, you need to tee off at about 11:00. Those on the course as the Mercury starts to slowly rise may hardly notice it - in the same way that a frog lethargically reacts to the increasingly dire conditions in a science experiment beaker.

I now proudly carry a sun reflecting umbrella and wear a hat with flaps over the ears. Denizens have reveled mightily at my Foreign Legion headgear. Call me Hajii. We set out at the pace of a desert caravan. In 110 degree heat, rough takes on new meaning. Shade.

On the 8th tee, a golfer playing the par three 14th hole badly slices into our fairway. He strides slowly with his back to us waiting on the tee. I call to him. No answer. "Fore" the rest of my group chimes in. No response. Finally, he waves me on without turning. He is dead in my line but I can see his point. More steps? No way.

The earth will undoubtedly cool, the children will return to class and Bedouin golf will soon be a memory. Why would someone willingly play under these circumstances? Why indeed.

Swing Thoughts - Volume I
Swing Thoughts - Volume II
Swing Thoughts - Volume III
Swing Thoughts - Volume IV