Too Cold? No Such Thing.

My friend Shelly, an accomplished competitive swimmer, has recently taken up running. She frequently asks me for advice, but as a resident of the balmy South she hadn't asked too many questions about cold weather running. Recently, however, this has changed, as the freezing temperatures in the Northeast have extended down even to her locale. "How cold is too cold to go for a run?" she wanted to know recently. I really had no idea. I recalled that the bulk of my training for my first marathon took place in January and February and I often ran around snowbanks. But I couldn't remember what the mercury was doing. As an under-employed recent graduate, I had the luxury of running midday when the faraway, pale sun had warmed things up a little bit, too. So it was cold, but not that cold. I much prefer running in the cold anyway, and so didn't think much of it.

This morning, however, I decided to see if I could get closer to an answer to her question. I set off a little after 6:00 when, according to my iPhone, the temperature was 14 degrees, without windchill.

On top, I wore:
-an old Vanderbilt beanie, made of who-knows-what
-a tank top
-a long-sleeved UnderArmor shirt
-a zip-up Mountain Hardwear hoodie
-a Marmot fleece with underarm zippers for venting
-North Face glove liners

On the Bottom, I wore:
-knee-high Smartwool socks
-Salomon running tights, slightly insulated
-an old pair of warm-up pants

None of the layers that came into contact with my skin was cotton, though I think the warm-up pants contained some in the lining. Cotton is a no-no for running in general: In cold weather, it makes you cold when it gets damp, and in any weather it rubs uncomfortably when wet. Synthetics or wool are better choices. Cotton, dear reader, is not your friend.

Usually, one wants to feel pretty cold for the first few minutes of one's run; a chilly start usually means a comfortable internal climate once one's heart gets pumping. I'd opted to do a tempo run for three reasons: 1) I needed to do one at some point anyway; 2) to get myself warmer faster; and 3) to get the workout over with as quickly as possible. The first few blocks, which served as a warm-up, were chilly indeed. I've heard people complain that it hurts to breathe in very cold weather, an effect amplified when one breathes harder due to exertion. This has never been a problem for me, but my chin quickly became numb, my cheeks stung, and my eyes watered. My feet threatened to go numb, too, but within a few minutes they'd warmed right up.

I completed my warm-up as I got to the West Side running path along the Hudson. The riverside wind shrieked around me, but it wasn't bad. Actually, it was good. I paused to unzip my underarm vents and admire the river, whose inlets were more choked with ice than I'd ever seen them. (The Coast Guard has had to help break it up for river traffic, apparently.) Everything around me was frozen, but instead of feeling glad I was so bundled up I had to resist the urge to drop a few chunks of ice down the front of my shirt. Perhaps I'd overdone it a bit.

I did the rest of my run quickly, not because I was too cold but because I was too hot and had nowhere to stash discarded layers. I shed my hood, unzipped my top two layers a bit, and barreled toward my apartment, careful to dodge icy patches on my sidewalk all the while. Safely inside, instead of heading for a hot shower I pulled layers off like a woman possessed, stopping only once I'd gotten to my base layer and could feel drafts against my skin. I considered opening a window, but decided against it for Ed's sake.

Were I to live somewhere that regularly gets this cold, I think I'd invest in a light, loose pants layer that has vents so as to be able to regulate my temperature more effectively. My Salomon tights are great, but I think I'd need something light and windproof to go over them. I should probably have left the hat at home in favor of my fleece headband, too; with a hood, I could have kept the top of my head warm as necessary but still been able to vent by pulling it off. Another plus is that a headband is easy to loop around a wrist if it gets too hot, something you can't do with a hat. Also, the knee-length socks were overkill, though my ankle-high Smartwool socks would be a better alternative than the synthetic shorties I wear during warmer months. I'm on the fence about the top fleece layer - I'd make other adjustments before forgoing this, I think.

So Shelly, 14 degrees with windchill is not too cold to go for at least a short run. In 40 minutes I felt just fine, though spending hours outside in that temperature would cause one to burn lots more calories than usual and necessitate carting along some extra fuel. It could also necessitate a face mask. I can't do more than speculate about that for now, but I can say that it's certainly easier to run when it's 14 degrees than it is to walk at that temperature. And you get the running path pretty much to yourself.

Other, miscellaneous tips gleaned from past winters: Bring tissues (or make peace with wiping your nose on your sleeve). Don't stop for too long because it's hard to warm back up again, and if you must stop for a while, zip back up, pronto. You'll be too hot initially, but you'll be glad you did as your body temperature dips. Watch for puddles, and ice patches. And tucking in layers keeps you warmer.

In the Mood for Trim

When my best friend Courtney said that she wanted to make her own sash to go with her wedding gown, I thought she was nuts. But I also thought she had a solid plan for buying supplies. She wanted to spend part of our weekend in NYC together scouring the fabric and trim stores of the Garment District, which made sense; after all, few other cities were likely to have the number of options we'd find here. And I was interested to see what these shops were like. I did a bit of research and turned up a few options, and we set out almost the second she arrived.

The first place we tried was called Mood Fabrics. We took an operator-run elevator to the third floor, not quite sure what to expect. I'd read that it was large, reasonably priced, and had tons of things to choose from. Having a lot of choice is normally a great thing. But we were so overwhelmed by what we saw when the elevator doors opened that we stood, speechless, in the doorway for a good 30 seconds. The place was huge, a veritable jungle of rolls of every kind of fabric imaginable--and some I never could have imagined--lace, sequins, beads, ribbons, buttons, thread... That was just one floor. Mood has three.

Buttons. There were two other displays as large as this one. 

Eventually, I snapped out of it and led Courtney to what looked like lace. A friendly salesgirl saw our panic and offered to help, and we got some good ideas from her. While she and Courtney were conspiring, I looked around a bit more. I heard at least two women explaining to different employees that they were from out of town. One had come from Kentucky. A ten-year-old girl was being helped by her mother and a man in a Mood apron to choose fabric so she could make her own reversible skirt. Other customers were clearly in the fashion industry, based on their outlandish attire.

Lying on the floor, right in front of the silk charmeuse, lay a jaded-looking dog. He was completely unphazed by the busy maelstrom around him. Later, we saw his picture on several Mood products (tape measures, comment cards, etc.) and learned he is the store mascot. His name is Swatch.

Swatch rests.

We were sent away with several samples of lace and ribbon, and went to M&L Trim, where we found the selection much tidier but much narrower and more expensive. We checked out some pre-made flowers and looked in their Bridal Salon, but it was clear that Mood was going to be our supplier. We also stopped into a jewelry supply shop, where we saw a uniformed, armed cop heading out the front door with a paper bag of beads in hand, assuring a salesgirl over his shoulder that he would let her know how the dress had come out once it was finished. Certainly not something you see every day in most places, but in New York this seemed sort of fitting.


On Monday, having had time to plan, we went back to Mood and Courtney purchased several types of lace, some embellished with beads and gold thread, as well as some ribbon and invisible thread. Feeling more confident now, we decided to branch out and explore the other floors. One had knit fabrics, fake fur of every description, and a section of beautiful bolts of cloth for making suits.

The lowest level was dedicated to upholstery supplies. I've never seen so many tassels in one place, and some of the fabrics were so lovely that I was inspired to look into upholstery classes, just so I would have a chance to buy and use some.

When Courtney got back to work on Tuesday, she was describing our adventure to one of her co-workers. The woman asked her if she was talking about Mood, then proceeded to inform Courtney in shocked tones that this is a major tourist destination in New York. Apparently the contestants in the TV show Project Runway always go there for supplies, and Mood is often shown on the show. Swatch is famous. Visitors from around the country drop by just to check it out.

We had no idea we were visiting such an iconic New York establishment, but I don't think we could have enjoyed ourselves any more if we'd known about it. Meanwhile, it's nice to know that everything I need to make literally any type of clothing imaginable is just a little over a mile away.

Good Things Come to Those Who Don't Wait

New York is a place that rewards those who act quickly. There are lots of great things to do in this city, but there are even more people who want to do them, so planning ahead is essential. Want to see that hot new movie on opening weekend? Better buy your tickets online a few days in advance and show up at the theater at least an hour early (more than two hours if you're going to see part of a popular series or a really anticipated opener) or you'll get stuck sitting in the very front row. Feel like splurging on a great dinner on Friday night? Make reservations at least a week in advance, or show up prepared to stand in the bar for several hours while you wait for a table to open up. (You may get a bar stool eventually, but you'll have to earn it.) For those who don't get a reservation or an advance ticket, the outcomes are to simply go a few weeks down the road (for shows), go at a less popular time (6:00 for dinner), or to throw in the towel and try something else (there's always a cheap, decent Thai place in the neighborhood that can accommodate you in a jiffy).

After being burned many, many (many, many) times, I no longer even try to go to above average restaurants on weekends between the hours of 6:00 and 10:00 unless I have a reservation. Brunch from 12:00 to 2:00 is a similar story. If I want tickets to a show, I act fast. Things sell out here with alarming rapidity, and it's just not worth it to leave things to chance.

So when Ed decided that he wanted to go to Blue Hill for his birthday, I knew I had to get moving. Ed's birthday is in mid-March, which left precious little time. Blue Hill is a much lauded restaurant affiliated with Stone Barns, an organic farm in Westchester, NY. It's about 30 miles outside of NYC, but its distance and price tag are not deterrents and it's tough to secure a spot. For the kind of leisurely dinner I envisioned--on a weekend with four friends--I'd need to act fast.

I learned that Blue Hill takes reservations two months in advance, and that one can book right on their website. This was great news; it meant no sitting by the phone in breathless anticipation then feverishly dialing their number the second they opened, hoping to be the first in line. I had no idea how big the place was, but I didn't want to get bumped. Since we wanted to go on March 15th, I set my alarm clock to go off at 5:00 on the morning of January 15th. Accordingly, this morning, I staggered out of bed and made my way through the dark to my computer. I found, to my shock, that the time I'd arbitrarily picked, 7:00, would not work for a party of 6. Luckily, 7:30 would, and I pounced.

A few hours later, after the sun had come up and most normal people had started their days, I decided to try to make another reservation just out of curiosity. When I did, at about 9:00 A.M., the earliest a party of 6 could sit down at Blue Hill would be 9:00 P.M. Keep in mind that this is two months down the road. Blue Hill serves the kind of multi-course dinners that take a long time to eat, and such a late start, while workable, would not be ideal.

The early bird gets the delectable, multi-course, locally sourced and organic dinner at a desirable time in these parts. Now I have two months to get excited.  

Pre? Check.

Last night I ventured out to JFK airport without a suitcase or a plane ticket. It felt strange to go to an airport when I wasn't going on a trip or collecting a visitor, but I had a particular mission: I was going to be interviewed for the Global Entry program.

Suckers.

For those who travel a lot and have a bit of free time and a spare $100, I highly recommend looking into this option*. If you qualify as a "known traveler" you can get through some of the more tedious aspects of airport security more efficiently. For example, when re-entering the US after traveling overseas, scanning your passport, providing fingerprints, and looking into a camera allow you to skip the customs line; you can simply punch a few buttons on a machine and you're good to go. I will look forward to doing this when I return from international trips. For me, though, the big draw was qualifying for TSA's pre-check. I was eager to wait in a shorter line for security and sail through without bothering to take my  laptop out of my bag or remove my shoes and coat.

If you've lived at the same address for the last five years or worked the same job for a while, your application will likely be pretty simple. Mine, alas, took a while. You have to provide lots of information about your residence (and past residences), employment (current and past), countries you've visited, etc. All this is done online. Then you submit a $100 application fee and settle in to wait - in my case, it took about a month. Eventually, if all goes well, you'll be contacted to schedule an interview date to which you have to bring your passport and proof of address.

Getting to JFK via public transportation is a hassle and was the most cumbersome part of the process. It takes over an hour, but I got lots of knitting done on the subway and it wasn't too terrible. At the office, the woman who was called by a different agent to interview before me was questioned very thoroughly, so I guess some people get the third degree; for me, however, the "interview" was over in fewer than ten minutes. I was photographed and my fingerprints were taken, then I was asked to verify my address and email address. I then learned I'd been approved and was sent on my way. The guy did not even ask for the proof of address I'd brought.

Don't be this guy.

Now I am waiting for my card to arrive so I can begin to enjoy the expedited security measures my $100 and sterling reputation have earned me. My status is good for five years; $20 a year for faster clearance at airports seems well worth it to me.

If you're interested in becoming part of this exclusive circle, access the link for the application here. Meanwhile, have fun in the security line. When you make it through, you'll find me halfway through a martini at the bar in the terminal.


*An additional caveat is that only certain airports have interview centers. If you don't live in a big city, you may need to travel to the closest one for your interview.

Ringing in the New Year at Las Alamandes

Las Alamandes is a tiny resort on a large tract of land in the middle of nowhere on the Pacific coast of Mexico. To get there to launch our five-night stay, Ed and I flew into Puerta Vallerta where we were met by a car that took us south for 2.5 hours. I'm generally not one to get carsick, but the winding roads nearly did me in. Many of the uber-rich guests fly into the private airstrip on the property, and I was able to understand why as my stomach flipped over for the umpteenth time.

The fountain at the center of the developed property - most of the inland area has been left wild

Upon arrival, we were handed margaritas and ushered into our small, attractive casita. The weather was overcast, and by the time we'd gone on a quick tour of the grounds, returned to our room, and dressed for dinner, it began to rain. It rained on and off every day that we were there. Apparently, this kind of weather is unheard of in this part of the world, though the fact that Ed and I still had a great time speaks volumes about how great the resort is.

The casita we shared with a host of geckos. We had a little patio with a couch, two chairs, and a table, and a rooftop deck that, alas, we did not get to enjoy due to all the rain.

Beach-side breakfast

The resort has only sixteen accommodations, so even though the property is huge there are never many people there. We ate our breakfasts and lunches under a palapa (a patio on the beach covered with palm thatch) and dinners in the one restaurant on the property. I worried that we'd grow tired of eating at the same place every night, but I was pleased to discover that the menu, while small (three appetizer options, three entrees, and three desserts each night) changed each day. There was always a wonderful ceviche option. We heard that the chef was very open to making just about anything one could want, but we found no reason to stray from the menu. Meals could also be ordered to be delivered to one's room or set up on the beach. The grounds and the service were impeccable.

The center of the property. The palapa where we ate so many meals is in the thick of the palm trees to the right. The swimming pool is on the other side of the hedge.

This is the beach we biked to

After our first breakfast there, Ed and I headed out on a pair of mountain bikes. The dirt roads were often steep, very rocky, and covered in places with thick mud many inches deep. It was hot and sunny - for the only time during our trip as it turned out. (Of course we would embark on our single strenuous physical activity of the trip during the "heat wave"...) Pedal as I might, my wheels often spun in place until I lost momentum and had to leap off the bike. I pushed it up many hills and rode the breaks on the descents. This was my first real mountain biking experience, and conditions were far from ideal. Finally, on one particularly steep downhill slope, I somehow lost control and crashed headfirst into a thorny bush, coming to rest at last in a patch of mud. I emerged with only a few scratches on my face and neck, my left arm having taken the brunt of the damage somehow.

This was unpleasant, obviously, but I very much enjoyed the long stretch of deserted beach that was our target once we finally arrived. Ed swam and I walked up and down the beach, watching crabs and strange tadpole-like creatures that were new to me.

How often does one get to say that the only footprints on a stretch of beach are their own?

Other adventures included an evening trip to a local artisans' market, a jog along the water, and horseback riding on the beach. I'd always wanted to do this, and I envisioned cantering through the sand with salty air whipping through my hair. My horse, however, did not share my vision. He seemed to be about 50 years old. After about thirty seconds of insistent nudging, I managed to persuade him to a reluctant trot for a few steps, but he quickly relapsed into a trudge again and I decided to just enjoy watching the pelicans diving into the water. Ed's horse had a bit more spring in her step, but not much. They were the perfect mount of tourists with little behind-the-reins experience.

The following day we arranged to have lunch on the same beach we'd ridden to on horseback. It was really quite lovely, despite the overcast and somewhat chilly weather. 

 

Enjoying one of the hammocks. In the background, you can see our umbrella and mat set-up by the water.

An employee dropped us off in a car and told us he'd be back in two hours, and then we were on our own. The driftwood furniture under the palapa there was covered with white cushions, and hammocks had been hung between beams for us.  

Ed and our feast

We ate lunch, then headed for the beach where straw mats and towels waited for us under a single pink umbrella.

I enjoyed taking pictures and poking around huge boulders on the shore while Ed went boogie boarding. I was about to join him when a wave flipped him headfirst into the bottom so that he came out with a scraped, bruised forehead no longer in the mood for boogie boarding. We relaxed on the mats, enjoying the solitude, until it began to rain, and our ride arrived to collect us shortly after.

New Year's fiesta in the palapa

There was a large New Year's Eve celebration with a huge dinner and tasty beverages, with a bonfire on the beach and fireworks at midnight. It was a wonderful end to our trip, though I was sorry to see it end, both because I was reluctant to go back to the real world, and because the forecast called for clear skies beginning the day we were to leave and continuing for the foreseeable future. Go figure. Oh well. It was rather nice not to have to worry about sunburn.

It wasn't the beach get-away Ed and I had envisioned. The weather was too cool for lying on the beach even when it wasn't raining, and we spent a lot of time under cover. Still, it was a lovely place to relax for a few days, and, while cool, still a whole lot warmer than New York. I came back no more bronzed than before, but with a renewed zeal to perfect my ceviche-making skills and lots of great memories.

Conquered by Hercules

Until Ed gets our Mexico pictures off his camera, my post about our New Year's trip to Las Alamandes will have to wait. In the meantime, here's a brief account of my adventure with the aptly named Hercules storm that blasted us on Friday:

Some of my college friends who follow this sort of thing informed me that Vanderbilt, not usually a stellar football school, was going to play a bowl game in early January. Those of us without kids and other obligations (an increasingly small group) decided to arrange a trip to Atlanta, where we'd stay at the home of two of our friends and then drive to Birmingham to watch the game. I would be in New York for something like 50 hours between the end of our Mexico trip and the launch of my Atlanta trip and was a bit nervous about all the laundry and un/repacking I'd have to do; it came as a relief, therefore, when my boss declared on Thursday that we'd work from home on Friday instead of coming to the office. He was worried about all of our out-of-town employees (i.e. everyone but me) making the trip from New Jersey and Long Island.

As I worked on Friday, popping up occasionally to throw more clothes into the washing machine, I kept an eye on my flight status. We'd gotten a good six inches of snow the night before, but no more was falling and the sky was clear. I figured I'd be fine--New York airports are used to dealing with snow, right?--and for a while it seemed I was right. Then Delta started sending me emails. My 6:30 flight would now leave at 7:30. Now 8:00. Now 8:30. When I left the house at 6:30, 8:30 was still the predicted departure time. I picked my way along an slushy sidewalk with suitcase in hand, weaving in between people literally bundled up to the eyeballs. Part of a bench on the subway platform had been dripped upon from a street-level grate above and was covered with ice.

The subway was slower than usual, and so was the AirTrain. I was worried that I would be late for my flight, but I needn't have been; when I got above ground, I consulted my phone and discovered that it had been pushed back to 9:00. Inside the airport, I passed a very long line of people at the customer service desk. As I was the only person in the security line, I essentially walked into the terminal and settled in with my laptop to wait. It was freezing and people around me were wrapped in those thin fleece airline blankets you usually see only on planes. Some of them looked as though they'd been there for a long, long time; people had set up small camps and were sleeping, eating, and gazing blankly and rather hopelessly into the distance.

Every half an hour or so, an announcement would be made that things had been pushed back. For a while, I decided to stick it out, but by 10:00 I was growing tired and feeling pessimistic. I was scheduled to come back to New York early Sunday afternoon, and I didn't want to spend as much time traveling to my destination as I would spend actually being there. An announcement was made that free pizza was available to waiting customers. This worried me. I'd never known an airline to be so generous and figured that things must be bad indeed. I inquired about whether I could get a credit for a future flight and was told to call customer service. When I did, the wait time was estimated at 3-4 hours. At least. I used an option that would cause the airline to call me back when someone was available to speak to me and went to try the line at the service desk. People had pulled a line of wheelchairs into it. Everyone waiting was sitting, and there was absolutely no forward movement during the 15 minutes that I stood there. I figured that they must have been scheduled for cancelled flights and have no other option but to wait. I did have an option, though. I went home.

In the morning, I received a call from the airline at 11:45, about 13 hours after I'd initially called. I was given a credit for another flight to Atlanta, which I'll use sometime in spring to go visit my friends. Ed's cousin, a resourceful travel agent, told us that the flight I was supposed to take had ended up leaving at 3:18 A.M. Had I waited for it, I'd have landed in Atlanta with just enough time for my friends to pick me up on the wait to Birmingham for the game.

Hercules certainly won that round. While I was sorry the weekend didn't go as planned, I'll look forward to another shot at it in spring, when there is no chance of being snowed in.