I was in the US for work recently, and took myself out for a run in New York. This was pretty brave: it was –12 C that morning. But I’d promised myself I’d run in the three cities I was visiting, and I’d failed in Chicago. (Well, I was only there a couple of days.) So I put my cap and gloves on, and my favourite Howies merino top, and headed out up Fifth Avenue towards the park.
It was bitter. Of course, those canyon streets of Manhattan funnel wind very effectively, so I was running in a biting breeze. The fronts of my thighs felt instantly icy (I was in running tights), and the air sliced its way down into my lungs like a blade. Oddly, it felt kind of good as well as being hideous. Bracing, you might say.
Central Park, thankfully, was catching the sun by this point, so I did a wandery sort of a circuit. I even found some film people blowing real snow over part of the park. Someone told me later it was for a Russell Crowe movie.
Anyway, it was never going to be a long run in that temperature. But I did 4.7 miles, which I was pretty pleased with. Got some funny looks from the heavily muffled commuters, though.