be able to work off fresh impressions. "Let's do it!" I cried. (The lemon drop martinis were still doing much of the talking.) "Except -- " I hesitated, "we'll be flying right into the hurricane." "Thirty thousand feet up," Dr. K pointed out. The Marathon that Frankenstorm Ate: Iron Girl arrived in NYC Friday afternoon for the Sunday race, only to learn at 5:16pm in a taxi from the airport that Mayor Bloomberg had just cancelled it. We raced for our computers, I obliterating every aspect of the New York spectacle, he attempting to nab tickets to London. Fifteen minutes later, he had learned that our airline was recommending canceling flights to New York (and waiving change fees), that British Airways had two seats available, and he gave me the thumbs up. Off I went, booking hotels. I knew exactly what itinerary we should take. It all surged into my head as channels opened:  London, Canterbury and time spent on the Chalk Cliffs, those great white borders edging England. The end of October is off-season there, and it turned out our trip across the pond would be less expensive than staying in the States. Thanks to the miracle of the Internet (and a touch of insanity), by ten o'clock the next morning, everything was reserved and off we went. The week in England was invaluable, and yet, we spent time looking backwards over our shoulders, monitoring the situation at home. We watched the storm as it inched its way towards