The snow presumably stopped at some point late last night or early this morning, and the whole of the nabe was covered with a calf-deep layer of perfect white stuff.

Biking to the station was out of the question, so my thoughts turned to which footwear I’d opt for. The logical choice in heavy snow would be the big mofo black J Crew boots, but they’ve never been comfortable; it’s like I’m still breaking the damn things in a dozen years after I bought them. They’d be pretty useless if I had to run to the train, which I end up doing most every time I walk.

Then there’s the more conventional low-cut Rockports, which are fairly grippy, but don’t offer protection above the ankle.

I thought of the stretch of the trip where I’d have to go off-road–the 20 paces where Bradhurst hits Broadway–and opted for the boots.

[Editor’s Note: Sometimes I write a few paragraphs for the blog, then wonder why the hell anyone would care about what I just wrote about. Such as with the previous few paragraphs about the footwear.]

The nabe had a Rockwellian charm, if you’ll pardon the cliche, hushed and covered with that perfect white. Everybody was digging their cars out at 8 a.m. this morning. Despite the miserable task at hand, everyone I passed was chipper, offering up a hearty hello, relief about surviving the blizzard, a hint of bon homie about the shared experience of the storm.

Every so often a car would crawl by; some looked like snowballs with headlights, their owners not taking enough time to properly dig them out and dust them off. One car, a white Mercedes coupe that looked as though it spent the previous 24 hours in a garage, zoomed down Brighton at a pace that was way too fast for the elements.

I think I know that car…If it’s the one I’m thinking of, it blew through a Stop sign where the new cross walk is at Chelsea and Brighton Tuesday evening, making folly of the lame left-turn hand signals I attemped to offer up as I approached the crosswalk.

The driver, a woman, parked at the house that’s had the offensive/not offensive black lawn jockey in the front lawn for years.

I’m keeping my eye on her.

The roads were covered with a half-inch layer of slushy ice, with some bare pavement in the middle. My feet were aching and I was wishing I’d worn the Rockports, until I got to the off-road stretch. Indeed, we had about 10 inches down. I tried to walk in the previous pedestrians’ footprints, but still was calf-deep in the white stuff. The Rockports would’ve been toast.

The train arrived on time. The sun was peaking over the eastern cliff of Hawthorne, promising to help melt away the previous day’s production. All was good–at least until I boarded and grabbed a seat catty-corner from a guy in a neat blue suit, pink pattern tie, and the most horrific duck boots you’ve ever seen.

I’d run the marathon in my painful J Crew shit-kickers before I’d wear those things.

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