My wife is Extreme. She’s XXXtreme. She’s ik-'streem! When you are as Extreme as my wife you must have an outlet for all that Extremity. If you let that shit build up you’ll blow an X-ring and get Mountain Dew all over the damn place. My wife has two outlets for this intensity. One is constantly being Rad all the time. She is also somewhat Gnarly on occasion but that’s neither here nor there. The main outlet for her unconventional rabidity is a sport called Being a Fucking Triathlete. That’s right, she will Swim, Bike AND Run all over your shit!

My wife is one of those ladies for whom biking and running just isn’t enough. If she is asked to swim and bike, she’s like, “Shit, I got time for one more thing!” And if you ask her to run and then swim, you best invite her to bike as well or get a size six Nike placed somewhere on your body…and Hard! Yeah, she knows Karate too (not really)!

A couple of times a year I accompany my wife to these races. When she wakes me up at 4:30 in the morning to drive to the event I usually think she’s joking. You have to get up pretty darn early to fool me! Nine times out of ten she’s serious and I have the distinct pleasure of watching the sun rise over a few thousand ruddy characters stretching while Takin’ Care of Business plays over the tape deck in their Subarus. Mostly these people all look the same. They have really dry hair from the chlorine, they have poor complexions from all the sun and they have the shadow of my middle finger stretching across their faces. You haven’t heard anything until you’ve heard the sound of a rubber wetsuit squeak over pre-cancerous skin. It’s like chewing on a tinfoil-coated chalkboard, mostly because I am usually hung-over or still drunk at the time.

You see, these events happen on The Weekend, meaning my pre-event nights are usually spent doing a triathlon of my own which includes Drinking, Smoking Weed and Peeing a Lot. Drinking is a triathlon in itself because I start with cocktails before dinner, have a bottle of wine while I eat and finish with whatever someone hasn’t dropped a cigarette into. My morning’s triathlon is some combination of Vicodin, vomiting and Us Magazine.

But I do rise with her. And I anoint her with ancient oils that Block the Sun. And I drive with her to the Chosen Places and I complain about the Toilets. I watch the baby as she swims and then runs and then bikes. I change diapers on front seats and Nod at other be-Björned men. And when she returns, sweating and panting, she tells tales of poorly marked turns and asshole cops. She regales us with visions of trash in the ocean and fat ladies pulling off to pee in the woods. And we set her on the throne of the Extreme and worship. Then we go home and take naps.

Triathlons are not the only extreme thing she does. She bakes a mean fucking Apple Cranberry Pie with a Caramel Walnut Glaze, she cries at the end of Grey’s Anatomy every week and she fights with her mother regularly. EXTREME!!! Not convinced? She just bought a bed-skirt that matches our bedroom rug perfectly. Yeah. And she would like me to tell you that she can knit cables. Are you wet yet? Well guess what? She can take our baby’s temperature rectally, she speaks Spanish and she knows how to decorate a mantle. Read that last sentence again. Yeah…she had a baby. OUT OF HER VAGINA! Perhaps you should call BMX bikes and get her that endorsement deal now.

As I write she is putting a bathing suit on under her clothes. She will go to the gym (A really expensive one…EXTREME!) and then, perhaps, run a few errands. And before she races home to feed the baby (from her BREASTS!) we will meet at the movies. Now, before you start thinking that going to see a movie is a totally normal thing to do, get this…it’s Monday…AFTERNOON!!!

Rob Corddry is an actor. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter.