Kiss my mediocre, slow, thirty-eight-year-old, four-hour-and-thirty-one-minute running, marathon finishing ass, you smug motherfucker. I’m so sorry that I’ve somehow tarnished the sport for you. I trust you’ll suck it up, stop whining, and get over it.
Or maybe you won’t. It doesn’t sound like you want it badly enough. Maybe you’ve forgotten that the most important race is the one you’re running against yourself.
So how’s that knee feeling, bitch?