I’m halfway through a half hour of deep breathing and my right foot feels like I’ve locked it in a mini fridge.
Jen had warned us we’d get cold. It’s all the adrenaline, the epinephrine. I crack an eye open. I can’t see much from down in Shavasana, but it looks like the nine others in my class are all wearing their towels like sleeping bags. Mine is still rolled like a pillow under my head. I decide not to unfurl it; I don’t actually mind the frigid sensation in my extremities, same as I’m starting not to mind these protracted breath holds. In cahoots with the discomfort is a smoldering euphoria.
The last time I did something like this I’d traveled 5,000 miles, to the gym of Kahea Hart, a surf instructor on Oahu’s North Shore. I lay on the mat in his garage as he paced around issuing instructions, the Simon Says of box breathing. He told me when to inhale, when to hold, when to take an extra “sip,” when to exhale with a crash. By the end of the session I was buzzing with unfamiliar energy. I imagined my circulatory system lighting up like a victorious pinball machine.
This time around, I only walked five minutes from my apartment in South Williamsburg to The Dime, a luxury residential tower on the other side of the BQE. I’d heard murmurs — that is, seen postings on Forte, a social fitness app — about the Ice Cold Club, a rooftop cold plunge workshop founded by Global Nike Trainer Lauren Schramm, which often hosts events for run clubs and yoga studios.
My class is called “Breath + Flow,” and it’s taught by Jen Frodsham in a spare studio with 15-foot glass windows, adjacent to The Dime’s roof deck. She begins by asking us our sun signs and explaining the implications of Venus retrograde. I’m no less dubious of astrology these days, but I am less dismissive of it. There’s always a dash of woo-woo at these things; I’ve found that beneath those zodiac particulars are messages we all need to hear. Reminders about slowing down, letting go.
The first half of the class is a gentle mobility flow. We work from tabletop — side stretches, thread the needle, warrior poses, a bit of downward dog, and finally 90 seconds of pigeon for each side, which, after building some heat, feels like heaven. All the while the sun is setting on the other side of Manhattan, and the vermilion sky seems to melt the silver buildings until the day is no more.
When Jen tells us we’re going to finish the class with 30 minutes of intense breathwork, it occurs to me, somehow for the first time, that I’m the only person wearing a bathing suit. Wait, shit: aren’t we doing a cold plunge?
I’m confused, but there’s no time to litigate my potential booking mishap. We’re on our backs now, falling into a steady cadence of inhales and exhales. It’s remarkable — as the time passes, as she changes the tempo, and starts prompting various breath holds (30 seconds at a time, 60 seconds, longer) — how I can feel my diaphragm find its confidence. I suck in more air as the session goes on, hold it in for longer and even seem to forget I’m holding it. When she calls for a release, it’s like I’m being zapped back to the present.
Increasingly, there are people chasing clarity (and a natural high) through this sort of “high-ventilation breathwork.” Done carefully, and correctly, the practice can simulate “experiences people normally associate with psychedelic drugs.” Is it legit? Yes. I think so. All I know is I feel crazy in a good way. Crazy good. And also quite cold in my limbs, on account of all the oxygenation and subsequent hormone release.
To end the class Jen slowly shifts us back to reality, then urges us to have a gentle evening. She also says we’re free to explore the roof deck.
There’s a great riff in the novel Netherland by Joseph O’Neill about the natural entitlement New Yorkers feel to explore their neighbors’ apartment buildings. What’s in this closet? How big’s your bedroom? Let’s see the roof!
So it’s with a local’s nosiness that I wander around The Dime’s deck, checking out its basketball court and lounge chairs and 360-degree views. At the industrial grill a guy’s cooking a bunch of sausages. Over the river yellow windows are winking to life. No doubt still intoxicated by the breathing session, I feel an absurd shock of immortality. Then I remember my confusion from earlier. I guess (ultimately correctly) that Ice Cold Club collaborates with local movement studios; maybe some of their classes don’t include cold plunges.
Then I notice a gelid-blue glow from the far corner, where a man is splayed out in a six-foot-long tub, sucking lungfuls of October air. Jackpot. I linger to the side, pretending to scroll my phone. When he climbs out, over five minutes later, I ask him the temperature.
“50 degrees,” he says, checking a thermometer on the side.
Grill Guy comes over and asks us how we access the cold plunge.
“I don’t actually live here,” I defer to Plunge Man.
“I don’t live here either,” he says, “but there’s a QR code.”
Turns out he pays a membership ($99 to $120 a month) to access the tub whenever he wants. His name is Jake and his personal plunge record is eight-and-a-half minutes. He even comes up here in the winter. He’s amused to see me there, says he’s never seen someone come plunge at the same time as him (it’s about 8 p.m. on a crisp Monday night).
“So to you,” I say, “the Ice Cold Club is just you coming up to this tub.”
“Yes,” he laughs.
I love it. This era of wellness has made us all a little crazy, me included. For one night, Jake expands his club to include me — I sit in the tub for a little under three minutes while he puts his clothes back on. I notice how available my breath is throughout my effort. That’s my parasympathetic nervous system operating at its most activated. Or maybe I owe some thanks to the BQE. Watching the cars fly by was a nice distraction.
When I’m done, he closes the thing up. We exchange names, fist bump, say see you around. I head home in a wet bathing suit.
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