It’s 8.30am and -110C and I’m stomping around to “Pump Up the Jam”, wearing a bikini, trainers and a woolly hat and gloves – like someone who expected beach and got ski. I love a sharp hit of cold, but cryotherapy tips it into the extreme. The endorphins are flowing but there’s the niggling worry that the heavy door might not open when three minutes are up, leading to certain hypothermia. My skin prickles as I enter the final chamber: there’s something thrilling about being this close to death when every fibre of your being is so alive.
Alive. It has been a while since I properly felt that.
