I have a rather uncomfortable admission to make: I’m not terribly enamored of new technology. At least, I’m not as much as I feel I should be, especially given that I am equipment editor for GolfInstruction.com.

Let me explain.

For every technological advance, there are people who get crushed (or at least bruised) under the wheels of progress. Just think of all the young trophy wives who were perfectly content married to floppy 70-year-olds before Viagra hit the market. All of the sudden, these poor things had to start earning their future inheritances. I’m guessing many of these ladies really hate the researchers at Pfizer.

Some folks think of technological advances as opportunities. In 1903 an Ohio manufacturer of hickory buggy whips named William Burke realized that the horse was on its way out as transportation, so he retooled his business to make hickory-shafted golf clubs instead. Today, nearby Newark, Ohio is the home of GolfWorks and Dynacraft, two of the three largest golf club component companies in the nation.

Other folks like me, however, are happy with the status quo and view new technologies askance. Take for example the advent of the big-headed driver. Five years ago, I was using a 190cc component driver made by Raven Hawk Golf. It was titanium, but that was the only technological concession. I loved that driver. I hit it past everyone by 20 yards. On two occasions, I carried the ball 309 yards with it. That’s 309-yard CARRY.

Then the big-headed drivers came along, and I succombed to the suggestion that I’d get even more distance with one of those. I began switching around, which entailed changing tee height, lofts, and consequently, my swing. I developed a vicious hook, which eventually migrated to every club in my bag, even my putter. And I lost distance.

Today, I’ve finally decided to return to my Luddite ways, at least for now. I’m using a 300cc driver – puny by today’s standards. The problem is though, once you’ve been seduced by technology, it’s hard to keep from wandering again, and again, and again. There’s always the promise that the next club might just return you to those 309-yard days.

Always the promise that the next pill will make you feel 21 again…

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