Following the Málaga calamity in December ‘25, my years-long quest to smash sub-3 continued. Ba ck then I had vowed to put it right - but in Málaga a year later, not here at the Boston Marathon with Faye and the crew. Just four months down the line, this always felt too hard a course, too short a gap, too much of an ask. More importantly, it was our first real time spent away together since we’ve had the kids, which was more important to me. On top of all of that, who knew what the weather would do? Boston is notoriously unreliable in that department. No surprise that friends who’d run it were saying ‘add at least five minutes to anything in your head’. My head was definitely saying ‘maybe not this time, Phil’, not least because my already truncated training block had been cut short by over three weeks thanks to norovirus and a stupidly incurred Achilles injury (moral: don’t train like you’re immortal). ...