The laptop hums well past midnight. The Diet Mountain Dew flows into my cup, Niagara-like in its volume and pace. The up-tempo ’70s soul music peps through my headphones, keeping me awake as the minutes pass like seconds. There’s so much steam rising from vents outside my hotel-room window that a frigid fog seems to hang in suspension over the nearby, domed football stadium. Each step on the sidewalk is accompanied by the crunch of salt and ice; each newscast leads its sports report with college or high-school basketball.

It must be February in Indianapolis.

Combine time.

So far, this has been a placid trip, considering how some of my voyages to far-flung destinations took turns that would have made Odysseus or Uncle Traveling Matt blanch.

Turns out that Wednesday’s trip here was as uneventful as My Dinner With André.