By Michael Barry | Photography by Walter Lai

The windows on the bedroom are lined with frost, blue and white crystal patterns becoming brilliant with the moonlight, still shining bright in its final hours. The duvet holds in the warmth, while the room has chilled through the night. The alarm buzzes. It is 5:18 am as I hit it and then reach for my winter shorts. Getting out of bed, then pulling them on, I am committed. Everything else has been laid out: the wool socks, the wool undershirt, the jersey, the jacket, the leg warmers, the gloves, the hat, the scarf, the glasses. I pull them on quickly, trying to keep the bed’s warmth on my skin, in my body, and tucked into the clothing. When I step out into the cold, the warmth will stay with me for at least a few minutes. After that, the effort will take over. Now, in the bedroom, I scurry quietly, readying myself, as my wife and our boys lay buried deep in their duvets, asleep. I’ve got twenty minutes to meet the group.

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