WATCH YOUR STEP! : At Riviera, There’s No Trap or Hazard as Treacherous as Polyester Hill

Watching the Los Angeles Open at Riviera this week is a relatively easy endeavor, one would think. One would be wrong.

For starters, spectators are often forced to park long distances from the course, trudging as far as a mile while lugging binoculars, portable seats and other paraphernalia, often along busy streets in lavish Pacific Palisades. It is perhaps the only place in the country where a pedestrian can be run over by a Mercedes-Benz, a Jaguar and a Rolls-Royce all in the same day.

Arrival at the course does not guarantee a risk-free day, either. Many people suffer emotional injury as soon as they realize they’ve just paid a decent day’s wages for a wrinkled hot dog and a warm can of beer.

But the real danger lurks out on the course.

People, who have watched former President Gerald R. Ford play golf, can attest that being bonked on the skull with golf ball can really hurt.

But, at Riviera, even this danger pales in comparison to what lurks between the 18th fairway and the 3rd fairway, an area known as Polyester Hill.

Polyester Hill is a 60-foot-long, 45-degree drop down which thousands of spectators are forced to walk. The frequency of falls and the traditional composition of pants worn by golfers and golf spectators alike, and the resulting residue that is left on the ground, accounts for the hill’s name.

Even under normal, dry conditions, the hill is treacherous. The grass is badly worn and loose clods of dirt await any misstep. Throw water on Polyester Hill, as the clouds did Saturday morning, and what happens when 10,000 people converge on it is not a pretty sight.

It’s a somewhat entertaining sight, but it’s not a pretty sight.

For example, take J.M. Allen of Monrovia. Polyester Hill did. Allen hit the crest on the move and quickly shifted into the 747 approach for his descent, arms outstretched, searching for a solid place to put down his wheels.

Suddenly, disaster. His left foot slid out from under him, quickly followed by the right. The plane had crashed.

“I glanced over at Peter Jacobsen hitting his approach shot on No. 3 and never saw the mud,” Allen said. “I kinda had the wind knocked out of me, you know?”

Moments, later, as a man in a red sweater came to the hill, he slowed and motioned for his young son to hold his hand. “C’mere, Travis,” he said. “And be careful.”

Seconds later, Mr. Careful was down on one knee and pushing himself back to an upright position as clumps of wet dirt and grass clung to his previously stylish pants. Don’t worry about Travis, though. He bolted down the hill at full speed and made it safely. For his effort, he got this angry response from his father: “Travis, I told you to walk with me.”

The boy said nothing, but seemed bewildered, knowing that had he indeed been holding his father’s hand when Dad hit the deck, he might have been hurt.

The father eventually reached the bottom of the hill and said he’d rather not give his name. He did allow, however, that he had never before been to a golf tournament and that he lives in Downey.

You are thankful, for his sake, that he does not live in Woodland Hills or Baldwin Hills.

Most of the people who headed down the hill did not fall. But even some of them looked silly. Simon Kostner of Santa Monica, who said he felt silly, was one. He chose the penguin waddle as he began down, feet turned outward, hands at his side and wrists flexed upwards. Kostner made it quickly and safely to the bottom. Despite his success, none of the several dozen people who watched him attempted the penguin step.

There seemed to be a general feeling that falling down was preferable to looking like a brightly dressed Arctic sea bird.

The spills, tumbles and lunges down Polyester Hill came despite appropriate footwear. Most spectators wore deep-treaded sneakers. Some even wore spiked golf shoes. So when Cheryl Sanger approached the hill with a nifty pair of brown suede high heels late in the day, veteran hill-climbers smirked. This dive, they figured, might require judges’ scoring.

Tentatively, she took her first few steps, her hands gripping the neck of her companion, Mike Herman. Halfway down the cliff, her spiked heels began plunging into the wet earth. She systematically popped each one from the ground and continued on. And, somewhat miraculously, she reached the bottom of the hill without a hitch.

“I was ready, though,” Herman said. “I figured it was just a matter of time before she fell, so I carried my umbrella and my beer in the same hand, so I’d have one hand free to catch her.”

And they say gallantry is dead.

“I’ve never been to a golf tournament, and these are definitely the wrong shoes,” Sanger said. “He picked me up this morning and didn’t tell me we were coming here. He said he was taking me to breakfast. I am going to get him back for this.’