B2B, to be.

It's a questionable description. I know because I was there in 2013, fresh off a big marathon PR, sussing out bits of information while locked down in the Marriott Copley waiting for an all-clear. So when I say this year's Boston Marathon was "carnage," I understand the connotation.

But it was. I picked up hubcaps from Framingham to Boylston Street. The wheels, as they say, kept falling off. I was lucky to have my wits. I eased off the target far earlier, choosing instead to shrug off hopes of a 2:40 and run moderately-paced miles through the heat, into the wind, and down to Boston.

After my shower, I sought a beer (first it was coffee, then that "beer" was actually a glass of wine) and some solid calories. The stories circulating at the table were even uglier. One mate, who trained in sweaty Houston, managed an admirable 2:49. The sole surviving positive story, from a B.A.A. vet called Chris, was told with a smile and a shrug. "Sometimes you get it," he said, and returned to feeding his infant daughter her bottle.

I didn't immediately rue the day or all the mysterious forces conspiring to destroy so many of us. In fact, at that moment, I yearned, like Chris, to nonchalantly switch back to Dad-mode. Though lucky to have the company of my friends, it was easy to long for my wife and son. The marathoner in me had changed; training and traveling and celebrating were now married to wrangling and guiding and guessing of parenting. With my wife and son back in California, the moment felt slightly more than two-thirds empty.

Six days later I found myself on a hotel floor in Monterey, between two queen beds, changing a diaper. I hadn't yet untied my HOKAs, a mere hour off a strong finish in the Big Sur International Marathon. I remembered the longing that came, unordered, alongside my Cabernet in Boston. I smiled. This is more like it.

The double behind me, I'm back to sneaking out quietly before dawn to keep grease on the gears. Nice and easy for now, but padding the mileage soon enough to prepare for Pacifica 50k in July.

How my students shaped my training this week: It's clear that despite the age and maturity differences, we are a roomful of moody bitches. Too much screen time, to little sleep.

What my son taught me about running this week: On a walk around the block last night, I watched the correlation: the further we got from his halfhearted attempt to eat dinner and the closer we got to bedtime, the worse his attention and reflexes grew. I realized that I should consider late-race fueling a new priority. I'd hate to have the finish line in proximity and diminish my accomplishments by stumbling on phantom blades of grass, losing time by yelling at garbage bins, and dropping to my knees in protest of... life.