How My BFF Became My Fitness Frenemy

This article originally appeared in the July/August 2016 issue of SELF. For more from the July/August issue, subscribe to SELF and download the digital edition. This full issue is available June 28 on national newsstands.

I was cruising through Brooklyn, New York, three quarters of the way through my first-ever half-marathon, when I saw it looming off Ocean Parkway: a giant hill, hell-bent on destroying any hope I had of making this an eight-minute mile. I surged forward, cursing myself for sticking to pancake-flat pavement during my three months of training.

The other runners around me seemed equally daunted: I could hear groans as some of them dropped off. As tightness invaded my pumping legs and arms, I fought the desire to let up. I realized that no one around me would notice if I did, and it got harder to lift my knees out of their fatigued shuffle. My mind scanned for something—anything—to motivate me. The thought hit me: Karly. If only she were there, wordlessly urging me to keep pace.

Karly was my running twin.

We ran together on the high school track team, sharing sweaty hugs after grueling 800-meter dashes. We had similar body types—short, with thick, muscular legs—but it went beyond that. Our personal racing records were nearly identical, too. Recruited to run track at the same college, we decided to become roommates as well as teammates.

By the end of freshman year, she was one of my best friends. On weekends, we lounged around in matching team sweats, reveling in Beyoncé and the Green Bay Packers. On Halloween, she was Baby Spice to my Sporty. We shared terrible postmeet hot wings and inside jokes about cute guys.

Still, there was no mistaking her competitive streak. Anytime we ran, she’d try to beat me. “I’m not going to sprint,” she’d swear before a training run. Then, inevitably, halfway through, she’d get fired up. I’d take a deep breath and follow.

Plenty of coaches had told me that in running, your biggest competition is also your biggest asset.

In fact, our college coach capitalized on our rivalry, telling me after the races I lost: “You have to stay with her. When she moves, you move,” as I nodded and mentally fixed a target to her back. It was the exact same thing he’d say to her when I won.

Karly was there to witness my victory whenever I managed to edge her out. When I fell short, it was my turn to congratulate her…even if it was with silent envy, an internal chorus of “you’re second best” chipping away at my pride.

It had always been this way in our friendship. But as college went on, the stakes got much higher. Running a 56-second 400-meter dash meant you had the chance to be an all-American. Losing meant years of sweat, tears, sprint-till-you-throw-up practices and bloody-shinned box jumps were all in the service of a hobby.

One day during junior year, when she sped past me at the end of a particularly close 400, I felt myself seize up. My brain seemed stuck in slow motion; my muscles were like bricks. She had just run a national-meet-qualifying time. I didn’t need to look at the clock; I could tell by the way my breath burned in my chest. I watched as our coach and teammates ran to embrace her, her blonde ponytail swallowed up by their arms. I had run one of my best times of the season, but it didn’t matter. Next to her, I felt invisible.

And yet we did everything we could to avoid any awkwardness. Because we were friends. My toughest opponent was also the girl who happily stuffed my over-packed suitcases into her tiny orange two-door sedan and drove me home for Thanksgiving, who insisted on telling strangers at parties that I was going to be a “famous writer” one day. If I got chewed out by our coach, it was Karly who would pat me on the back and build me back up.

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