We all survived. Six guys used five bikes to navigate the central nervous system of Amsterdam. We had a variety of foods, played soccer in a park, toured the Van Gogh Museum, implemented the buddy system as we wandered the red-light district, but mostly we avoided collisions with buses, trains, boats, trams, scooters and other bike riders. To summarize a few days of close calls: Mike (back right) lost his wedding ring in the park, his wallet and passport in the street, and a Van Gogh print in the airport. And he got it all back.

Collectively we gave Amsterdam high marks. Right from the start, my five friends and I on a bachelor party (J.D.'s--in the red shirt) flew into one of the best airports in the world. In fact, the Amsterdam airport was ranked eighth best airport in the 2009 World Airport Awards. My friend J.C. (back-middle) said he could live there. We were also fans of the train system and the electric trams. The flat topography is conducive to cycling and everyone was doing it. The bike lanes are like cart paths running along streets throughout the most remote sections of the city.

One might assume life in Amsterdam is like a college dorm: slow, filled with tie dyed shirts, smells of incense and that everyone is overweight from eating big bags of chips. And ice cream. And microwavable burritos in a bag. But that is not the case. Not even close. The locals seem to be in great shape. They’re quick on bikes, and quiet as they go about their business. And they won’t stop for the wandering tourist, so look both ways before every step.

While in Amsterdam we never had a bad meal and I believe it’s because it was really good food. The Van Gogh Museum was some much needed culture mixed into an otherwise debaucherous few days away from reality. (Vince was a strange cat, but he sure knew his way around a canvas.)

Amsterdam can be compared to Vegas only in that they’re both cities and any longer than three days in either place is a true test of your guardian angels. Besides that, I’d say Vegas is like practicing off mats at a driving range. Amsterdam is like practicing on grass. Or, say, real turf.

As I mentioned in a previous post, this was a personal journey. I left the clubs and empty notebooks at home. But I did have a brief brush with golf.

I’m not talking about a messy U.S. Open that I tried to follow by way of spotty Internet connections and even spottier TV coverage. Poor Lucas Glover. He deserves a kick in his khaki covered shins. It was ridiculously disappointing for me (and the game of golf) to crown yet another generic major champion dressed in a white hat, white shirt, who gave nothing more than a limp salute to the masses right after he stole the trophy from a pair of potential storybook endings.

Lucas, if I may, you just won a national championship and a pile of cash and you’ve accomplished a chunk of what you’ve been working for since the first day you picked up a club. It’s OK to show some emotion. Drop to your knees, man. Cry like you just watched “The Champ.” Rock back, lift your farmer-tanned arms to the sky and scream, “Any-thing-is-poss-ible.” Throw your headwear like you just don’t care. Run around and high-five a frustrated and muddy Monday gallery--all of them. Fist pump. Kiss kids. Do SOMETHING! Good shots and making putts are only part of your responsibility, and I respect that aspect of what you do. But in order to grow the game beyond Tiger, we need winners with charisma. I’m sure you’re a great guy, but with that new bag of loot, go buy some personality.

J.C.’s pink bike with a black basket that he rented for seven euros a day had more color than Glover. Which brings me back to a story involving golf while I was in Amsterdam.

The cast of assembled characters and I were having a late lunch, drinking tall pints of Heineken (brewed in Amsterdam, it’s much better than the U.S. version) when we noticed a stunning brunette standing on the street wearing tight pants, snappy golf shoes, lugging a bag of clubs over her shoulders. This woman didn’t wait long before an attractive friend on a scooter jumped the curb with an extra helmet.

They were on their way to hit balls and they invited me to get on and go for a ride to the range. They said they needed instruction and that they wanted to play golf in New York some day. In the spirit of male bonding and a commitment to the crew, I passed. And away they went. Gone, like spring.

You’ll notice by a quick glance at the images above that their invitation was safe. A third person on a two-person scooter wasn’t an option otherwise I would’ve ditched my motley posse for a grass range in Amsterdam. And I might still be there.

--Matty G.