An Open Letter to the Car Driver in Front of Me

Hey guy,
Just sitting here behind you looking at your bumper sticker. “13.1”, huh? You should be proud you ran that half-marathon. I mean, not proud enough to think it worthy of everyone’s recognition. I think you’re a bit unclear on how bragging works, so turn on the BBQ, because I’m about to grill up some knowledge burgers: never brag about something that can be easily bested. For example, a kid on the basketball court doesn’t brag about being able to touch the rim when one of his friends can dunk. See what I’m saying? Yeah, it’s impressive that you ran a race of just barely over thirteen miles, but not when there’s so many people out there running 26.2 miles.
Have I ever done a half-marathon? Of course not. My Saturdays are better spent sitting on the couch eating a Costco-sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.
But I’m still not impressed by you, particularly if the driver next to you has a “26.2” sticker. Speaking of: if you’re driving and you’re about to pass someone with that full-marathon sticker on their car, do you decide not to pass, knowing that if you were to pass, the other driver’d no doubt chuckle and shake his head the way a father does when watching his toddler try to figure out how a straw works? Or do you pass the other car and curse yourself for ever affixing that sticker in the first place?
Running a half-marathon is like dating the hottest women in her group of friends. But then one of her college friends moves to the area and is hotter. That guy who dates her is the full-marathon runner. And the ultra-marathoner is the guy who dates the woman’s unreal hot cousin who would have been a model but decided to get a medical degree instead, and is super nice to everyone, and even though the other women should all be jealous and catty around her they can’t because she’s just that great. And she cooks. So now you went from being on top to being middle of the pack. How’s that feel?
Sure, you should be proud of your accomplishment, but maybe it shouldn’t be your pickup line. I mean…shoot, I spilled some Doritos.

Sincerley,