I used to play once a week, getting up a six am to tee off at seven thirty. I'd join the queue at the first tee, shivering in the cold wind (or sweating in the 30-35 degree summer heat - about 90-100 farenheit.), wondering what the hell I was doing there.
The group in front always consists of four 80-year-olds with six clubs between them, or three visiting businessmen with the latest equipment and no idea which end of the stick to hold. And the group behind always consists of two or three long hitters, grim-faced young men who play twice a week and expect to play through if you can't reach the green with your tee shot on a par five. No matter how slow the group in front of you are, the group behind you will lay the blame for their slow progress at your feet. And if you do let them through, there will be an even more agitated group behind them.
After the round I'd add up my score and head off to work, telling myself the exercise alone was worth the $14 green fees. (and hundreds of dollars worth of gear.)
I finally got smart, though. I realised the driving range afforded me more hits of the ball, less walking, less cost AND no scoring (except ten points for hitting the poor sap collecting balls in the distance.) At my local course the ball collecter has an electric buggy beefed up to Hummer proportions with all the armour plating, netting and peep holes.
Plus there's nobody coming along behind you, determined to land a ball on your head.