He Always Knew How to Milk a Laugh
- Share via
If you think Jim Murray was an enjoyment to read, you should have had the pleasure of traveling with him. Knowing him, and living with him, as I did during the 1990 British Open in St. Andrews, was one of the treasures of my years as a sportswriter.
Our bed-and-breakfast hideaway was 50-odd miles through the back roads of Scotland. Jim was the navigator, I was the driver.
The problem was Jim couldn’t see very well and I had never driven on the “wrong” side of the road.
On one stretch of farmland where tall hedgerows crowded the road, I nervously glued the car as close to the left side as possible, causing Jim--sitting on the left-hand side--to complain that I was too close.
“What’s the matter, I’m not hitting anything,” I said.
“No, but if a cow sticks her head through the bushes, I’m so close she might kiss me,” he answered.
Sign up for The Wild
We’ll help you find the best places to hike, bike and run, as well as the perfect silent spots for meditation and yoga.
You may occasionally receive promotional content from the Los Angeles Times.
