Triathlon: Philanthropic Style

Feb 3

First published in Santa Barbara Independent 2013

When our son asked us if he could participate in a triathlon, his first ever, at the age of 11, we knew he was ready and wholeheartedly supported him. His thirst to compete began one year earlier when he discovered that his schoolmate was doing just that to raise money for Foodbank. Dario wanted to join him then, but with the event just around the corner, he’d settled on running alongside his friend and his father during the “run” portion of the race, which left him itching to compete with them in a full triathlon.

A year later, as the season approached, instead of fundraising on their own, the boys partnered, setting a lofty goal of $10,000. The venture exemplified the idea of “think global, act local.” Leading up to the triathlon, the boys meandered about Foodbank’s Table of Life luncheon, introducing themselves to potential donors with the savvy of a talent agent and charm of a prince. Halfway through the event, the duo addressed the crowd on stage by turns poised, factual, to the point, and funny. The event was a great success and tremendous learning experience for the young philanthropists.

Our family greeted the day of the triathlon with excitement and trepidation, not least because the De Albergaria pack’s usual Sunday begins several hours past the rooster’s first crow, not at the break of dawn. Dario’s twin sister, Gisella, was sporting an ankle injury from soccer and begrudgingly hobbled to the car, where she joined the soon-to-be-triathlete and his new bike, two caffeine-infused parents, and her sleepy 7-year-old sister. It wasn’t until we were at the course that we discovered Dario’s helmet had been left behind. As luck would have it, we could purchase the forgotten gear at a tent presumably installed for novice athletes or absent-minded parents like us.

In the minutes preceding the race, I felt proud of my son’s serenity, commitment, and focus. He’d completed the very demanding East Beach Junior Guards program a couple of months prior, which gave him an edge in the water and on his feet, but I knew he was daunted by the fact that he had not been on a bicycle for two years. “Buy me a bike!” he exclaimed as though it were some obvious cure to a malady. And so we did, just weeks before the event —a city bike. (Note to parents: listen to your son when he insists on a racing bike for a triathlon.) Our oversight meant that our untrained son, cycling far slower than his counterparts, would take on the bike course solo which, we later discovered, was partially open to traffic.

But let us bask in the joy of what proved to be a flawless swim. The adroit trio took on the 0.5K glide in perfect syncopation, shedding their fins like a reptile its skin, as they emerged from the water transitioning from tide to sand to asphalt in what seemed like one fluid motion. Heavy on our feet and breathless, my husband, Bernardo, and I stumbled through a maze of people toward the bike area, where we cheered the boys but soon lost sight of my son’s friend.

As Dario struggled to remove his wet suit (second note: practice before the tri the laborious task of peeling off a wet suit), I felt a surge in the pit of my stomach when I realized that not only had we left his shirt at the beach with his sisters who refused to be a part of their parents’ frenzy, but Bernardo had disappeared. In desperation, I ran across that godforsaken sand to retrieve the shirt. When I returned, I noticed that Dario’s demeanor had changed —one by one, he’d witnessed nearly all the athletes he had so effortlessly passed during the swim, mount their bikes, and grip the course. With trembling hands, I affixed his race number to his shirt and sent him on his way, fully aware that this leg of the race was terrifying to him.

Sheer determination was the only currency he had to complete the 15K course isolated from everyone. Minutes stretched into an eternity as we anxiously awaited Dario's return, each passing cyclist casting a shadow of dread. Just as we contemplated initiating a search, a sight emerged—a weary yet resolute figure navigating the final stretch of the race.

Our son made up valuable time on his lightning feet, finishing the triathlon third in his division. His triumphant finish, securing third place in his division, was a testament to his tenacity and spirit of philanthropy, having raised nearly $13,000 with his friend. The experience, at once thrilling, laborious, rewarding, and exhausting, left me oscillating between honor and shame as I pondered the question of whether I had become a fraudulent artist before a canvas of good when the media clamored to feature the boys’ inspiring story.

Thankfully, I was given a tiny article that enabled me to keep my cynicism at bay and wholeheartedly embrace Dario’s feat. It was an editorial a man wrote for his local paper to thank “the Good Samaritan”* who had enabled his 2-year-old son to see his father cross the finish line. (My husband’s vanishing act during the race was to purchase a helmet for the man who had also left his behind.) After the race, he left his name and number on Dario’s bike, hoping to repay my husband for the forgotten gear. Bernardo did call him, but only to ask that he pay it forward. As fate would have it, the man unwittingly paid it forward in more ways than one, for this small side story is the one I keep close to my heart, the one that prompts me to breathe, the one that fills me with a monk’s gratitude for my loving family and benevolent community.

* Good Samaritan letter: last slide below