No, this isnít a case of good intentions gone awry down McDonaldís way. I just finally got off my duff and volunteered at a food pantryís community kitchen, here in the Ann Arbor area. Got to make a salad, during the process of which I realized there a tiny bit of my wrist that hurts from playing volleyball on the weekend. Itís very much a ďnot a big dealĒ type pain, as I didnít even realize it was hurting in the three days since Iíd played. But apparently, the squishiness of a tomato firm enough not to give way immediately before a sharp blade was enough to reveal that adjutant to the radial nerve, and set off its jangled endings.
Of course, Iím more or less blindly blaming volleyball, as itís the only thing I did on the weekend that caused potential offense to a wrist bone. The previous weekend, Iíd played twice, and playing pickleball a couple of days later, I noticed that my wrist was a bit weak when trying to hit a backhand. I figure itís the same thing here, though it still doesnít rise to anywhere near the ten lines I just spent explicating the non-issue.
In addition to salad, I also got to mop and sweep the floor and scrub out the massive spaghetti pot wherein the eveningís main course was prepared. I figure Iíll go back, eventually, though I might check out the organizationís warehouse operation the next time I offer them a bit of my time. Or the food runner role, which apparently entails going out on a truck to collect donations. Itís not the same as The River back in Madison, but itís something to do. Kind of mad at myself for not having done anything of the sort during the two months since I moved.
After leaving the kitchen, I wandered back to my car, which Iíd parked at Ann Arborís West Park, and decided to honor the sign that said parking was for ďpark business only.Ē Took a wander through the park, eventually exiting onto 7th street, walking to its intersection with what I thought was Catherine street, but turned out to be Miller Avenue Ė Iíd forgotten about how Catherine is renamed Miller west of Main Ė and wandered east until I came to the parkís east gate, a simple arch marking the position of a staircase down to the main park. Descending the wooden steps, skirting the baseball diamond, and hopscotching through the mud bog that transforms into a community garden in the summertime, I returned to my vehicle, and proceeded to go to the gym. The walk was over 20 minutes, so of a distance greater than a mile.
Todayís wog at the gym was 2 miles, in intervals of 3 laps walking/6 running/3R/7R/5W, in a time around 27-28 minutes. I didnít formally pay attention to the time as I went along, instead trying to run for 5 minutes at a time. I actually ended up jogging 6 minutes at a time, with the first half mile proceeding at a slower clip (6 laps/6 minutes), and the second jog squeezing in an extra 1/12th mile lap into the same 6 minute time frame. I didnít stop jogging the second time due to tiredness; instead, my feet just started whinging, demanding that I slow to a walk. So I did, finishing out the second mile, and, if you included the stroll in the park, the remainder of a 5k distance.
I kind of hate the fact that Iím actually thinking in those terms, even as I stumble towards making that sort of thing (running a 5k) an actual goal of mine as opposed to this amorphous, ďwouldnít it be niceĒ pondering.
And on that note, hereís the Beach Boys for your listening pleasure.