Going for Gold, Driving for Uber: The Financial Reality of Olympic and Paralympic Triathlon

In March 2025, the U.S. Olympic and Paralympic Foundation announced a transformative $100 million donation to establish a retirement fund and life insurance benefits for athletes who make Team USA, starting in 2026. It was a landmark moment for a system that has long relied on the grit and sacrifice of its athletes without offering them long-term financial security. For elite triathletes chasing Olympic and Paralympic glory, the news was met with cautious optimism, given the day-to-day financial struggles of athletes currently competing.

Every four years, the Olympic and Paralympic Games captivate the world with tales of determination and peak performance. But behind the podium photos and national anthems lies a grittier possibility: for many athletes, the pursuit of Olympic or Paralympic glory can mean scrambling for sponsorships – and sometimes choosing between training and survival.

This begs the question: Just how much does financial insecurity factor into deciding whether to chase the Olympic Games, pursue a pro triathlon career, or walk away entirely?

Video: Myths about making the Olympic or Paralympic triathlon team

Team USA financial support: What’s covered, what’s not

It’s important to understand the mission behind the investment in elite athletes before examining the actual dollars. As the high-performance manager at triathlon’s national governing body, USA Triathlon (USAT), Scott Schnitzspahn is clear that the number-one goal of the organization is winning medals.

But there’s also a bigger vision, he says: “By winning medals, you inspire future athletes, attract fans, and increase participation. So in the short term, it’s about winning. But long-term, it’s about growing the sport and keeping that cycle going.”

USAT provides critical support to a pipeline of athletes – from juniors to Olympic hopefuls – but resources are finite. Programs like the national team, the Collegiate Recruitment Program (CRP), daily training environments (DTEs) like Project Podium and the Auxo Collective, and the Youth/Junior/U23 development initiatives offer access to coaching, equipment, and sometimes financial assistance.

“We’re trying to identify athletes with the potential to win medals – some in the near future, others further out,” Schnitzspahn says. “Development is an investment in future champions, so we keep the pipeline broad at first and narrow it down as we get closer to the Games.”

How much do Olympic triathletes make?

Triathletes on national or development teams may receive monthly stipends, access to the Olympic Training Centers (OTCs), race travel funding, and health insurance through the U.S. Olympic and Paralympic Committee’s (USOPC) Elite Athlete Health Insurance program. However, all these supports are tied to strict, performance-based metrics: National team athletes are usually offered one-year contracts based on prior-season results; development athletes may have a runway of several years to show potential, but re-evaluation can come as quickly as every three months.

“The support is scaled,” Schnitzspahn explains. “You might be getting a little bit of travel or gear support as a development athlete, while our top-level athletes are receiving living stipends and health insurance. It reflects their stage in the pipeline.”

Members of USAT’s Elite national team receive the most financial support, including a quarterly cash stipend that is allocated from the USOPC budget. To qualify for these stipends, athletes must meet stringent performance benchmarks – think Olympic medals, top-10 finishes at World Triathlon Championship Series (WTCS) races, or World Cup podiums. Tier 1 funding is currently $22,000 per year, while Tier 2 and 3 funding is $16,500 and $12,000 per year, respectively.

How triathlon funding stacks up against other Olympic sports

Other Olympic sports offer comparable levels of financial support to both development-level and top-tier athletes, with national governing bodies contributing alongside the U.S. Olympic & Paralympic Committee.

• USA Swimming provides “direct athlete support” to 28 men and 28 women named to the national team each year, including tiered monthly stipends based on world rankings, race travel reimbursements for two events annually, and health insurance, though the exact stipend amounts are not publicly disclosed.
• USA Track & Field runs both elite and development programs, offering up to $16,000 per year in financial support, a coaching stipend of up to $6,000, travel reimbursement, health insurance, and limited coverage for medical expenses.
• U.S. Rowing supports its Olympians and Olympic hopefuls through an elite athlete program, with top-tier athletes receiving up to $2,500 per month and the potential for additional payments at the organization’s discretion.

The high cost of becoming an Olympian

High costs to compete internationally are a common challenge across Olympic sports. In its 2024 report Passing the Torch, the independent Commission on the State of the U.S. Olympics and Paralympics highlighted annual expenses of $50,000 for gymnasts and noted one modern pentathlete who incurred $23,000 in travel costs alone for training and competition.

Triathlon is no exception, and often, even more expensive. Equipment, particularly bikes, can run into the tens of thousands. International travel, training camps, and coaching fees add up quickly – surpassing $100,000 per year at the highest levels, USA Triathlon told Triathlete in 2023. For many, the path begins with personal investment or family support. Some are fortunate to join USAT’s development programs to assist with many early-career expenses.

Paris Olympic medalist Seth Rider came through the junior ranks, starting at age six. “My first fully-funded trip was the Youth Olympic Games in China,” Rider recalls. “I was 16, with no money. Before that, most junior stuff was on my family. If I wanted to race, we drove ourselves. The big events like Junior Worlds might get covered [by USAT], but the rest? That was on us.”

Rider’s story is far from unique – it’s a familiar pattern in all youth sports, where parents often shoulder enormous financial burdens to support their child’s ambitions. Talk to any young swimmer, soccer player, tennis hopeful, or golfer, and you’ll likely hear a similar version. The strain isn’t just anecdotal: Gabby Douglas’s mother filed for bankruptcy after helping her daughter reach the 2012 Olympics in gymnastics, while Ryan Lochte’s parents reportedly stopped making mortgage payments to keep his swimming career afloat. Both athletes went on to have illustrious Olympic careers, but the price was high.

Unlike gymnastics or swimming, where talent typically rises through a well-defined junior system, triathlon follows a more unconventional path with its own financial hurdles. Erika Ackerlund, a U.S. team member for the past eight years, emerged from the collegiate club system. “In 2016, I was invited to a Talent ID camp and started racing draft-legal Continental Cups,” she says. “Everything was out of pocket at first – I had a hand-me-down wetsuit, and community support helped me get a bike. I was lucky to get some travel money through my university’s club funds.”

Chelsea Burns, who competed internationally from 2013–2020, entered the sport through USAT’s Collegiate Recruitment Program (CRP) after running track in college. “When I moved to the Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs in 2013, USA Triathlon covered housing and meals through the USOPC. But there was no stipend. A cup of coffee? That came out of our own pockets.”

When CRP relocated to Scottsdale, Arizona, in 2014, USA Triathlon began covering rent, food, and pool fees. Still, Burns says, “There wasn’t extra money for anything beyond the essentials. Looking back, though, that level of support is unheard of compared to now.”

While CRP contracts between USAT and athletes are private, Burns’ intuition holds true: The landscape has changed. Take Danielle Orie, a current CRP athlete who joined the program in 2024 after earning her elite license and graduating from law school. She receives support from USAT in the form of coaching stipends, limited race travel reimbursements, and performance-based bonuses.

But the financial burden is far from eliminated. Orie works full-time as a legal fellow to cover living costs in Boulder, where she trains, and supplements her income with occasional prize money and a small sponsorship. Though still new to the sport, she is all-in on her Olympic pursuit – a dream she’s reshaped her entire life around, from taking a flexible legal fellowship (at a fraction of a first-year law firm salary) to relocating to Boulder to train. “CRP helps, but it doesn’t cover everything,” she says. “My parents are supporting me, and I still keep a ledger of what I owe them.”

Who gets paid to be an Olympic triathlete?

While USAT’s Olympic development programs do provide significant support, not every aspiring Olympian fits neatly within their pipelines. Athletes who don’t develop quickly enough to hit predetermined performance metrics – or who age out before reaching their potential – often find themselves without a safety net.

“For athletes just starting out, we try to help with the basics – a bike, some gear, a bit of travel support,” Schnitzspahn says. “But if they don’t meet the performance criteria, we can’t always continue that support. We simply don’t have the funding.”

Michelle Magnani, a former collegiate runner at Oklahoma State, transitioned to triathlon through the CRP in 2021. With no formal swimming or cycling background, she leaned on early help from then-CRP head Joe Malloy and Project Podium coach Parker Spencer. “The best thing about [the] CRP was Joe and Parker helping me get a bike,” she says. “They got me set up with nice equipment.”

Magnani initially received support through gear, a $250 quarterly stipend, and travel funding for one race to pursue her elite license. But when it took longer than expected to hit performance benchmarks and earn that license, she was ultimately dropped from the program.

 

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Currently ranked 10th among American women in the World Triathlon Rankings, Magnani is now forging ahead without federation support. She lives with her parents, works multiple part-time jobs – including as a physical therapy aide and private swim coach – and self-funds her race schedule. “Last year, I used most of my savings on travel,” she says, as only a small handful of draft-legal events are hosted in the U.S. “This year, I’m working a lot and hoping for sponsorships, but nothing yet.”

By contrast, Orie – currently ranked eighth among American women and a newer recruit to the CRP pipeline – is tracking against performance expectations. Like Magnani, she has podiumed at Continental Cups, most recently in Miami. However, she’s well aware that to graduate from CRP to the national team, she needs to start delivering at the World Cup level. If she succeeds, her contract will adjust as she improves, raising the bar for bonus eligibility. She knows only sustained progression will yield funding.

The “sink or swim” years

The transition from junior or development ranks to national team funding can be the most financially challenging phase, as athletes chase top-10 finishes, podiums, and victories on the international stage to prove they belong and continue rising. It’s a demanding, often unforgiving process.

Rider describes his early post-junior years as a financial freefall, going from living at home with his parents to a daily training environment where he was fending for himself while pursuing his triathlon dream. “There was nothing,” he says. “I went from some junior support to zero funding in 2017. I was living in [coach] Paulo Sousa’s ‘squad house’ in California with barely enough to eat.”

He pieced together travel by racing in the Bundesliga and French Grand Prix draft-legal leagues. “The European leagues would cover flights and offer end-of-season bonuses. That’s how I could afford to race,” he says. His first WTCS start in Montreal was self-funded. “I stayed in a sketchy Airbnb where the whole place was hotboxed with weed. I had to stuff towels under the door to avoid breathing it in before the race.”

By 2018, Rider finally hit performance benchmarks to earn some funding. As he began proving himself at the senior level, more trickled in. “Once I podiumed in mixed relays and made the Tokyo test event team, I finally started getting a national team stipend,” he says. “But even then, it wasn’t enough to live on without prize money.”

From USAT’s end, funding is straightforward: “Hit the results and you get support,” Schitzspahn says. “Staying in depends on continued progress. Athletes must show they’re improving, even if not winning yet.” While USAT does allow for some discretionary extensions in cases of injury, illness, or pregnancy, Schnitzspahn acknowledges that “at the top, though, it’s more cutthroat.”

The tiered funding system aims to reward performance, but to athletes, it can feel like a vicious cycle: You need results to get funding, but you need funding to get results. When the results don’t come, funding can disappear. Burns was forced to take a break from racing in 2016 after breaking her jaw in a bike crash, only to lose her national team support. “I drove for Uber and delivered food in early 2017 until I earned my spot back.”

Ackerlund tells a similar tale: “I was added on a discretionary basis in 2022 because I had two top-15 WTCS finishes. I received $12,000 a year, a coaching stipend, and access to some discretionary camp funds. It finally felt like a career.”

But by 2023, the return of Olympic veterans like Gwen Jorgensen and Katie Zaferes intensified the battle for race starts, and Ackerlund was fighting to hold her place on the team. “The system can be really unforgiving,” she says. “You miss one key race, and your ranking drops. Race reimbursements went away. Suddenly, I was paying for everything myself, including health insurance.”

Losing money to make money

The USAT stipend doesn’t stretch far in a sport that requires international travel, coaching, equipment, medical support, and high-performance nutrition.

“You start getting results, and your expenses go up with them,” Rider says. “Altitude camps, better gear, international flights – it all adds up, and the stipends don’t fully cover that.”

What USAT doesn’t cover falls squarely on the athlete – and it’s rarely glamorous. For many, it’s a fragile safety net of prize money, sponsorships, patchwork grants, GoFundMe campaigns, and side gigs – assuming they even have time for those. A slump in performance or an untimely injury can quickly unravel an already precarious financial foundation.

With races scattered across the globe and camps required to stay competitive, holding even a part-time job is nearly impossible. While some athletes have delivered food or taken remote gigs during injuries or off-seasons, most say it’s not sustainable during peak competition windows.

“You’re not just training 30 hours a week – you’re flying to Korea, to Portugal, to South America, and trying to perform at your best,” Ackerlund says. “Who’s going to hire you for that?”

Athletes with the ability to monetize their platforms, especially in long-course triathlon, have slightly more leverage. As Rider noted, “If you move into long course, the sponsor interest picks up.” But short-course athletes on the Olympic path have fewer opportunities, with some world-class athletes on Team USA racing without a single paying sponsor.

This financial instability isn’t unique to triathlon – it’s a widespread challenge across many Olympic sports. In Passing the Torch, the independent commission recognized that a large number of high-performance athletes striving to represent Team USA face “poverty or financial insecurity” as they pursue their goals on the world stage. The Olympic movement, long rooted in the ideals of amateurism, has historically celebrated the image of athletes balancing training with full-time work – a legacy that still echoes today, even as the demands of elite sport have become increasingly professional.

Paralympians: Fewer resources, higher costs

For Paralympic bronze and silver medalist Mohamed Lahna, the financial story is even more complicated. After switching allegiance from Morocco to the U.S., Lahna quickly learned that the structured USAT paratriathlon national team had limits. “They fund three races a year and offer a small stipend, but it’s not enough to live on – especially with a family,” he says.

Lahna worked full-time during the first half of the Paris cycle, and only in the six months leading up to the Games did he train full-time. Equipment costs were a major barrier. “A running prosthetic isn’t covered by insurance. I had to travel to Chicago and Portland for fittings and spend out of pocket, even with grants from organizations like Challenged Athletes Foundation (CAF).”

And while Lahna praises the residency program in Colorado Springs for providing housing and meals, he had to leave his family behind to take part. “My wife was the breadwinner,” he says. “I traveled back and forth to California just to see my kids.”

Owen Cravens, a paratriathlete who competed at Paris in the visually impaired (VI) category, encountered a double financial hit: “Before I made the national team, I had to pay for my travel and my guide’s travel. It’s like paying for two people – flights, hotels, food.” His $20,000 tandem bike was partially funded by a grant from CAF, with the rest covered by his family. “I wouldn’t be here without their support,” he says.

Even now, on the national team, the support isn’t enough to live on. “My quarterly stipend is $4,125,” Cravens shares. “My rent alone in Boulder is $1,800 a month. That stipend doesn’t even cover my rent.”

The triathlon prize money trickle

In many ways, triathlon stands out among Olympic sports by offering any prize money at all, even at what is effectively the third tier of elite competition. Rowing, a similarly high-cost sport, offers little to no prize money, even at the highest levels. Gymnastics provides limited financial rewards, usually reserved for top-tier international meets.

Still, for both Olympic and Paralympic athletes, prize money is inconsistent. What’s more, prize money in World Triathlon races has remained largely stagnant over the past decade, failing to keep pace with inflation or the rising costs of competing professionally. In 2024, World Triathlon offered just over $1.7 million in total prize money, with Supertri adding another $1.3 million to the pool for athletes focused on short-course. In contrast, middle-distance and long-course racing – including Ironman, T100, Challenge, and independent events – paid out approximately $13 million in prize money.

To help fund their Olympic pursuits, athletes turn to alternative race formats with better payouts than World Triathlon events. The most lucrative options – Supertri, French Grand Prix, Bundesliga, and T100 – are primarily international. As Seth Rider experienced early in his career, racing in the French GP and Bundesliga circuits was essential for covering the costs of competing with the national team. “In 2017, I saved $3–4K and lived off that while racing Continental Cups,” he recalls.

Even for a high-performing athlete like Rider, financial stability didn’t come quickly. It wasn’t until 2021 that he built real savings, earning around $40,000 through Super League and a top-10 finish on the WTCS circuit that season. “It was the first time I looked at my bank account and didn’t panic,” he says. Now, with the Olympics behind him, he’s shifting focus to long-course racing and the sponsorships that go along with it. “That’s where the money is.”

Burns says she earned $11,500 from a single independent race win in Las Vegas in 2014 – “huge at the time” – but such paydays were rare. “I didn’t leave triathlon poorer than when I started, but I wasn’t saving for retirement either.”

The Paralympic prize money landscape is also sparse. “Only a handful of races offer prize purses,” Lahna explains. “USA Triathlon might offer $400–$500 for a podium, and the USOPC gives bonuses for Worlds or Games medals via Operation Gold, but it’s nowhere near enough to offset the costs.”

Cravens confirms that his earnings come almost entirely through the USOPC’s Operation Gold, which pays podium bonuses at one major event each year, typically the Olympic Games or the WTCS Series Grand Final. “Worlds might pay $7,500 for gold, less for silver and bronze. But regular races? No prize money.”

Is it worth the cost to become an Olympian?

The new retirement and life insurance fund marks a meaningful step forward in how Team USA supports its athletes. But will it change the game? Not entirely. For many, the most urgent need isn’t long-term security – it’s short-term survival and the steep opportunity cost of chasing Olympic or Paralympic dreams.

Every athlete I spoke with has a deep love for the sport. But nearly all of them have, at one point or another, questioned whether they could afford to keep going – and whether chasing the Olympic dream was financially sustainable.

“If I hadn’t been on the highest level of funding on the national team in 2018, I would’ve quit,” Burns says. “That’s how close it was.”

“Had I not made that relay podium this year,” Ackerlund admits (referencing the silver medal Team USA earned in Abu Dhabi in February 2025), “I probably wouldn’t be racing right now.” Ackerlund continues. “I’m giving it this year. If things don’t turn around – funding, opportunities – I’ll probably step away. I can’t keep losing money.”

Schnitzspahn confirms the tie between performance and pay: “The further an athlete is from the Games [on the development pathway], the more leeway we give. We understand progress isn’t linear. But once you’re on the national team, the pressure to perform is real.” In Ackerlund’s case, she needs at least two top-12 placings at WTCS races to earn the lowest level of national team funding for the coming year – otherwise, USAT may agree with her that it’s time to move on.

“It’s hard to explain the opportunity cost of chasing this dream,” Craven says. “You’re not building a resume. You’re not gaining work experience. You hit 30 and try to enter the job market, and you’ll be competing with 24-year-olds.”

Mohamed Lahna agrees: “You can only go so far saying you’re a Paralympian. Employers want experience. And I’ve got a family – I can’t keep doing this forever.”

Magnani has put off going back to school for three years to focus on triathlon. “This is my dream,” she says, “and I’m doing everything I can to make it work.”

All of these athletes are making real-time decisions about their futures with no guarantee of payoff – Olympic or financial. And while the recently announced $100 million fund for retirement and life insurance is a promising step, it’s aimed at helping athletes long after their careers are over. For many, the biggest challenges come before they reach that finish line.

“It’s not about asking for handouts,” says Rider. “It’s about recognizing that Olympic success comes at a cost – often a steep one. If you want medals, you have to invest in the people chasing them.”