I Watched My Kid Compete at the Olympics; Difficult, but Rewarding

My first assignment at the 2016 Summer Olympics was to deliver a package. My second was to find a food mart that sold bottled water.

I wasn’t working the event, though. My “job” was being the parent of an Olympic athlete.

My daughter, Gwen Jorgensen, was set to compete in the women’s triathlon, and our family had flown from Wisconsin to Rio de Janeiro to support her.

Though we’d watched her compete in London four years prior, she was favored to win this time, putting added pressure on her and our family.

Supporting an Olympic athlete during the Games isn’t as glamorous as some might expect

When our family arrived at the airport, my first thought wasn’t about wandering the city or soaking up the sun on the beach.

Instead, it was about delivering a package to Gwen’s hotel room for her coach. (She chose to avoid the Olympic Village this time, and instead stayed in a hotel on Copacabana Beach, within walking distance of the triathlon’s start line.)

Then, I was tasked with buying bottled water. When traveling, Gwen avoids ice cubes, tap water, and local foods as a precaution against illness — no churros or rodízio-style meat for her, which the rest of us enjoyed later.

When I arrived at her hotel with several gallons, Gwen was so busy that she grabbed the water and rushed me back out the door. I only saw her for a few seconds.

To be fair, her schedule was packed. That day, in addition to doing three workouts (swimming, biking, and running), she had booked an interview, scheduled a massage, and planned for a nap, the last two of which were necessary to be ready for the biggest race of her life.

Over the next few days, I only saw Gwen for a few minutes at a time, usually to perform a task for her, like picking up energy drinks, clothes, and sunglasses from sponsors, like Red Bull and Oakley.

Watching your child compete can be exciting — and frightening

The night before the race, I couldn’t sleep. My head played a loop of the catastrophes that could ruin a race: a crash, a flat tire, fatigue, heat, or injury. Gwen had experienced them all.

And now, there was added pressure from the media to win the USA’s first Olympic gold medal in triathlon.

In the morning, our growing group of friends and family (more supporters had joined us in Rio) gathered in the hotel lobby to walk to Copacabana Beach, where Gwen would begin the race by swimming 1.5 kilometers in the ocean.

Our daughter had received two comped tickets to share with us, and the rest of our group paid for their seats. We sat together in the bleachers, in an area athletes would circle past several times during the 40-kilometer bike ride and 10-kilometer run that followed the swim.

My heart was pounding as a gunshot signified the beginning of the race and the competitors dove into the water.

Triathlon is a low-profile sport, so there were no TV cameras to record me closing my eyes every time Gwen descended a dangerous, winding hill or cheering as she battled for the lead. I’m doubtful there’s any footage of how I hugged my husband and anyone within arm’s reach as our daughter crossed the finish line in first place, crying in amazement at her own success.

I tried to remember those moments: Gwen congratulating the other athletes, Gwen embracing her husband and then her coach, Gwen waving at us from the podium with a gold medal around her neck.

I anticipated spending the rest of the day celebrating with my daughter, but it would be hours before we reunited.

I feel privileged to have played a small part in her success

After the podium, an escort whisked Gwen off for interviews and photos. Meanwhile, I was led to an open-air NBC studio on the beach, where she’d appear later.

When Gwen finally arrived, she hugged me, handed me the medal, and was then ushered to a chair for hair and makeup.

Although it was mid-afternoon, she hadn’t eaten lunch, so her sister fed her bites from a takeout box while professionals aimed a blow dryer at her hair and dabbed foundation on her skin.

As Gwen got up from the chair, she gave me one more hug and asked if I had any deodorant. She hadn’t gotten a chance to shower and was worried she smelled bad. Even gold medalists still need their parents.

After the interview, Gwen disappeared once more, saying we wouldn’t see her again until 9 p.m. for a celebration at the Team USA House.

At the party, my family and I heaped appetizers onto our plates and sipped wine, as photos of Gwen and her teammates flashed on giant screens around the room.

Eventually, Gwen spoke, thanking those who had invested in her success, including me, my husband, and her sister, acknowledging that her win was only possible because of so many.

I knew she appreciated everything we did, but it made me proud to hear her say it.

My day ended at midnight, and I barely slept as I replayed the race in my head and anticipated more celebrations to come.

Although I’ve experienced local triathlons and global championships, nothing compares to the Olympics. I was privileged to be behind the scenes, playing a small part in the process.

Gwen may have been the favorite, but racing is unpredictable, and wins are never guaranteed.

When my daughter’s dream came true, I was the one with misty eyes at the ceremonies. Gwen had spent her tears at the finish line, years of pressure finally released.