Che Cavolo è Covfefe
I remember growing up when we were given a Presidential Fitness Challenge. This week, we were given an unpresidented challenge, to figure out the meaning of "covfefe". Che cavolo è covfefe? What the hell is covfefe? Why am I asking in Italian? And why make it a run? Because we can leave no stone (or cabbage) unturned, maybe it is something we could discover in the Sierra Azul wilderness.
I learned that if you announce a run, put a trendy word on it, and name it Italian, then it's pretty easy to get 6+ guys to show up, even if it involves a lot of climbing on an exposed fire road. It's an effective way to filter in the lower rungs of intelligence in our running group: Ramiro, Marty, Keith, Stephen, Bob and new Jim (not to be confused with old Jim - Jim Magill, although both guys are pretty old). The run was advertised as very loosely organized and without a fixed route. Most chose to do the famed Dogmeat-Limekiln figure-8 20k run with 3,000 ft of climbing. Not to be out-dumbed, I chose the 'quattro cani' (four dogs) 30k route, or four times up and down the infamous 1.5 mile Dogmeat section.
The morning started off great. The low cloud blanketed the valley, keeping our starting temperatures cool. While everyone was still asleep, I gathered up supplies for what I suspected would eventually become a hot day - 9 liters of water, a bag of pretzels - 21 pounds of supplies that I trekked up 2 miles to advanced base camp (ABC) for Dogmeat. A little extra training for me that would also allow me to carry just a single bottle up and down Dogmeat - see, I'm not that stupid.
The rest of the group started a few minutes after I did, and took extra time to gather their gear and wits. I got to ABC so early that I backtracked a mile after dropping off gear before finally running into our congress. 'Congress' being the most appropriate word for a group of morons. Here they are walking when I first saw them.
And a minute later, when the pretty boys realized they would rather be pictured running, not walking.
While the morning clouds kept the valley cool, advance base camp is already above the clouds and the sun started to beat us into submission. The first climb up Dogmeat was bad enough, taking 29 minutes, but it turns out the descent is just as bad, or worse in so many ways. The second climb was worse - warmer and with a view of Ramiro's backside. I was breathless. Miraculously, I was just a minute and a half slower up the second time. At the summit, Ramiro and I parted (farted?) ways - he would do the rollers out-n-back, while I descended for a third summit. Left to my own devices, the third climb was marked by several pit stops whenever I found shade enough to cover my big head. 36 minutes - seriously?
But it turns out that I'm not quite as dumb as I aspire to. With a tight shoe causing foot problems, I only did the triple Dogmeat. Schwartz would have been proud.
It was too warm for any PRs today. Not a three dog night (a reference to an old rock band that only new Jim and old Jim might understand). Besides, it wasn't cold - a three dog night is when you're a redneck, and it's so cold you invite three dogs into bed to keep you warm. In fact, it was the opposite - more like a three dog afternoon - so hot that you might kill three dogs on a hike, worse than the day 20 years ago when just one of my three dogs died from heat stroke while hiking. And yes, I'm attempting to use humor to cover up my pain. And no, it doesn't work.
Back to our mission at hand. I was hoping that covfefe was just one of things that you don't know what it is, but you'd know what it is when you see it. And do you know what covfefe means? I do. It means we elected an angry, senile, insecure old man as president and we're dumb enough to pay rapt attention to his late night tweets.
I learned that if you announce a run, put a trendy word on it, and name it Italian, then it's pretty easy to get 6+ guys to show up, even if it involves a lot of climbing on an exposed fire road. It's an effective way to filter in the lower rungs of intelligence in our running group: Ramiro, Marty, Keith, Stephen, Bob and new Jim (not to be confused with old Jim - Jim Magill, although both guys are pretty old). The run was advertised as very loosely organized and without a fixed route. Most chose to do the famed Dogmeat-Limekiln figure-8 20k run with 3,000 ft of climbing. Not to be out-dumbed, I chose the 'quattro cani' (four dogs) 30k route, or four times up and down the infamous 1.5 mile Dogmeat section.
The morning started off great. The low cloud blanketed the valley, keeping our starting temperatures cool. While everyone was still asleep, I gathered up supplies for what I suspected would eventually become a hot day - 9 liters of water, a bag of pretzels - 21 pounds of supplies that I trekked up 2 miles to advanced base camp (ABC) for Dogmeat. A little extra training for me that would also allow me to carry just a single bottle up and down Dogmeat - see, I'm not that stupid.
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| Morning fog over Silicon Valley |
And a minute later, when the pretty boys realized they would rather be pictured running, not walking.
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| Marty is having a really great time |
But it turns out that I'm not quite as dumb as I aspire to. With a tight shoe causing foot problems, I only did the triple Dogmeat. Schwartz would have been proud.
It was too warm for any PRs today. Not a three dog night (a reference to an old rock band that only new Jim and old Jim might understand). Besides, it wasn't cold - a three dog night is when you're a redneck, and it's so cold you invite three dogs into bed to keep you warm. In fact, it was the opposite - more like a three dog afternoon - so hot that you might kill three dogs on a hike, worse than the day 20 years ago when just one of my three dogs died from heat stroke while hiking. And yes, I'm attempting to use humor to cover up my pain. And no, it doesn't work.
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| Three dog elevation profile |
Back to our mission at hand. I was hoping that covfefe was just one of things that you don't know what it is, but you'd know what it is when you see it. And do you know what covfefe means? I do. It means we elected an angry, senile, insecure old man as president and we're dumb enough to pay rapt attention to his late night tweets.
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