Family’s annual tradition of Indy mini-marathon continues

Officially, there were two of us running again.  Unofficially, everybody runs.  Just because the rest of us don’t have numbers pinned on our shirts doesn’t mean we’re not running.  As the HOTS (Haulers of The Stuff) Team, it falls to us, the rank and file, to collect jackets and phones before the gun goes off.     This is no mean feat, mind you, when the line stretches as far as the eye can see.  Curb to curb, runners are packed in a solid line that marches up Washington Street in corrals marked A to Z.  With a runner in A and one in I and with blocks and blocks in between, we run and run, desperate to find our parties.  Which is why the yellow wigs went down again.  After years of sprouting ulcers ourselves, we said something like, “Never again.”  Since we could never see them, we said, they were going to see us, by cracky.  And that’s how it began.  Normally, I’d veto the wearing of bright yellow hair in the heart of the state capitol.  Normally, I’d tell the little Seussians, who look for all the world like Thing One and Thing Two, that they’d “better walk 10 paces behind me, and I mean it.”  But for this event, I check my pride at the start line, and we just run.  As always, Team HOTS retreated to the hotel to recuperate over a leisurely breakfast.  Then we hit the streets again, hoofing it down to Military Park to watch the runners come in, trying not to look too relaxed as they hauled, dripping, over the finish line.  Then, per tradition, the male members of our mob executed their post-race collapse flawlessly.  With snacks at the ready and a rented, in-room movie, they passed several happy hours together.  Per tradition, too, we trotted over to our beloved Starbucks on Monument Circle.  It’s very quaint, tucked just there along the brick-paved street where white, horse-drawn carriages pass by with eager tourists.  I’d like to think the staff looks for me every year, but it’s actually more of a one-way relationship.  I’m okay with that.    Also per tradition, the magnanimous Mr. Schrock sent Mama off to Circle Center mall with some money in her pocket.  Giving her uninterrupted browsing time and the cash to fund it is a Mother’s Day gift that gives him a terrific bounce in the polls.  (He, I might add, is more than okay with that.) Of course, we went to the Old Spaghetti Factory to dine in Victorian splendor.  Of course, the glass elevators got their annual workout.   And of course, there was the usual chicanery with the hotel key cards.  The boys went swimming (of course they did), and Little finally learned to jump off the side in his floatie.  The pool shark was back (of course he was), wreaking his signature brand of chaos.  Which, in turn, prompted the biggest brother to hop in, dispensing justice.  And that’s about the time the shark became a chicken.  Of course.  We brunched at LePeep’s (tradition, you see), and the tribe swam once more before heading home.  Later that night, with suitcases empty and washer humming, we fell into bed, happy and exhausted.  Which, of course, is tradition, too.