“It’s 6 o’clock already I was just in the middle of a dream” except unlike The Bangles 80’s hit ‘Manic Monday’ it’s only 4am and I’m in the middle of a nightmare. My husband is towering over the bed, desperately urging me to get up, claiming we have to leave in “five minutes”. “Sure” I reply, “just give me another hour or five.” Somehow I do manage to get up, dress in the outfit I laid out the night before, nuke some coffee in the microwave and prepare my oatmeal to go. The whole time asking myself ‘why?’ Oh yeah, love. Very funny.

Then we’re out the door and driving to the next triathlon on our calendar. Arriving I’m happy to note that the car park is right next to the race site, not miles down the road. The weather is unsettled today, if it rains it will be nice to have the option to sit in the car and stay dry. My husband unpacks his bike, wetsuit and running shoes from the car, then lines up to collect his race pack from the registration desk. I just stand there, feeling like a spare wheel, waiting. From the registration he heads to body marking where I watch am attractive young girl write his age and number on his arm, thigh and calf, doing my best to keep my jealousy in tack. My husband then walks into the transition area to set up his bike, shoes and towel, putting his wetsuit on in the process. What do I do? Since only athletes are allowed in the transition area all I can do is stand around waiting, trying to decide the best place to take a photograph. It’s a chilly morning so I stamp my feet a little to warm up.

We walk down to the water’s edge; a large reservoir with a sandy shore. Athletes are mulling around, their muscular bodies clad in black neoprene, creating the illusion of homogeneity; the only identifiable way to know a male from a female is the color of the swim cap, in this case purple for women and yellow for men. I am alone again; my husband is gone, swimming a little to warm up. I am feeling nervous, the butterflies beginning to flap in my belly. I want my husband to do well to the point where I actually feel a little sick.

My husband comes up to me, hugging me, making me wet, not that I care, I need his hugs. For the next hour or so I’m going to be alone, scared something will happen to him, screaming as loud as I can when he finishes. We kiss and hug. I find it hard to let go, but I do. The race is about to begin and he has to line up. My hands are shaking with nerves and I snap a million photographs.

All is quiet for the National Anthem, sung beautifully by an eight year old boy, and the race begins. I watch the swim, timing my husband with my watch, so I know when to expect him to finish. As the first athletes complete the swim and run to the transition area, tearing off their wetsuits as they go, I get my camera ready, hoping I recognize my husband when he goes by. And then there he is! I take several pictures, knowing only a couple will come out, and race to the outside of the transition area, snapping more photographs as my husband manically strips off his wetsuit, jams his helmet on his head and slips his feet into his bike shoes. Then, in less than a minute, he’s gone again and I know I have a good 40 minutes or so until he gets back.

I sit in the car reading for 30 minutes, praying my husband is safe, hoping he’s not taking dangerous risks or hit by a car (which he once was- he still finished that race). As the minutes dredge by I get ready with my camera, waiting. No one has finished this leg of the course yet and the more time goes by the better chance my husband has of winning. Suddenly a bike is in view, I squint, but the helmet color is wrong, it isn’t him. I start my watch and wait. Three cyclists later I spot him, a minute and a half behind the lead guy. I take pictures and scream “two minutes, he’s two minutes ahead of you!” as my husband racks his bike and switches shoes. In 30 seconds he’s gone again, zipping by as though he hasn’t just swum half a mile or biked 15.

I am extremely anxious now. A minute and a half is not a huge lead and my husband is a great runner; he has a good chance of winning. I can’t focus on my book, the words all blur into a glob of black senselessness. I pace. It doesn’t help. It’s been 15 minutes since the lead guy left and he’s still not finished. The run is a 5k; I know my husband will take about 16 minutes, so the longer the first guy takes the better. Suddenly I hear a radio cackle, a runner has been spotted entering the site. I hold my breath, cross my fingers and wait. But it’s not him. I let my breath out, disappointed. And then I see him, sprinting towards the finish line. He’s second and I’m so proud. I run up to him and kiss him, trying not to cringe at his sweaty hug.

He walks around for a while, his muscles unable to just ‘stop’ moving. He has a little snack, collects his gear from the transition area and is gone again. This time I know he will be exactly 20 minutes, so I return to the car and read whilst he cools down on his bike.

After the awards ceremony we head home, it has just gone noon and I am exhausted. My throat is sore from shouting and my adrenaline long since gone. My husband, on the other hand, is still buzzing, gazillions of endorphins happily shooting through his body.

It’s not easy being married to a tri-athlete. The race, which is often lonely for the spectator, is the highlight. My husband works a full time job, gets up early to exercise and swims at night. I’m lucky if I wake up next to him once a month and we usually only see each other for a few hours at night. If we plan to go on vacation the bike has to come and there must be a pool or lake nearby, causing additional hassle and often added expense. He trains seven days a week, never has a day off, not even for Thanksgiving or Christmas. I miss him. But I love him more. I am proud of his achievements and admire his dedication.

Being married to a tri-athlete does have some benefits, however. Desperate to spend more time together I began joining him in the pool. At first I could only swim for half an hour at a time, but now I put in the same four hours a week as he does and love swimming. I hated that I couldn’t run for a minute, let alone a mile, so I began running. I ran my first 5k in 2007. I was one of the last to finish, right behind a father pushing a double pram with toddlers inside, and had an ancient older man cheer me on near the finish- which he had already crossed a while before- but it didn’t matter. I made it, something I would never have been able to do without my husband. I began eating better and have lost 90lbs on what I call the TRIATHLETE BY PROXY diet. It has taken a good number of years, but I am considering doing my first triathlon next year, again something I would never have considered doing (or dreamt of doing for that matter) if I wasn’t with my husband.

Being a tri-athlete’s supporter is a mixed bag; it’s emotionally tough, expensive, time consuming and quite frankly a little nuts. But what’s life without a little craziness? I wouldn’t trade my athletic husband for all the world- and without him I wouldn’t be the person I am today.