THE FRONT ROW with BILL BULEY: Pride in defeat during an eventful Ironman

About 40 miles into the 112-mile bike ride of Ironman Coeur d’Alene on Sunday, things were going well.

Great swim, even better than expected.

So far, so good on the bike, feeling solid on the Mica climb, passing a lot of people on the other hills. Hardly noticed the heat.

I pedaled on, confident this was going to be a good day, even if it was my first Ironman in 10 years, even if I hadn’t prepared like I knew I should have.

THEN, I began to hear an odd noise from the front tire of my Felt bike. With each revolution, it grew more noticeable.

Couldn’t be, I thought. These are new tires. Couldn’t be a flat. Keep going.

Still, as I passed an aid station, and the last one for about 15 miles, I figured I better stop and check before I get too far down U.S. 95. I had seen other riders with flats in the middle of nowhere.

I stopped.

The front tire was going flat.

I turned around.

At the aid station, I asked if someone could help me replace a flat tire. I was pointed toward a table and two men. They took care of it, hustling to get a replacement tube when mine didn’t work. Within 15 minutes or so, I was on the road.

“You saved my race,” I said, thanking them several times.

But one of the men warned me, whatever I had hit, it had put a small cut in the tire. He wasn’t sure if the tire would hold.

AS I zipped back toward town, I noticed something else: my feet hurt, like they were burning.

On fire.

So 18 miles later, when I arrived at 19th and Mullan near our home, I stopped and asked — well, told — my wife I needed to switch to my other bike shoes and I needed the spare innertube from my son’s bike in our house. While she ran to get them, I checked the tires. All good.

My wife returned with the shoes, I slipped them on and charged furiously away. A short-lived charge. Less than a mile later, I heard that same noise from the front tire. I stopped. Flat again.

I took off my bike shoes and ran to my house, pushing the bike.

By now, I was growing a bit frantic. I was losing time and could be in danger of missing the bike cut. I ran faster, into the yard, set my bike down and rushed to get my son’s in our house.

I didn’t know if it was against the rules, but I was going to switch bikes. With the help of a neighbor, we put different pedals on my son’s bike, pumped up the tires, and I was off.

BUT THERE was another problem. The seat was higher. My legs sensed the difference and began seizing up with each stroke. I rolled to another stop at the next aid station and found a man with an Allen wrench. We adjusted the seat as much as it would go. I was off yet again.

The rest of the ride was, well, was all about pain. Torture comes to mind, as the 100-degree-plus heat sucked the life out of me.

I’ve never felt so awful. I dumped ice and water on my head at each aid station. The heat was suffocating. Hills were endless. My watch had stopped so I didn’t know what time it was. It seemed I was out there forever. I prayed and moaned and mumbled. It worked.

I finished the bike leg about 5:15 p.m. No one said I missed the cutoff so I began the run.

Well, I tried to run. I couldn’t. My son Nick tried to encourage me, but I told him I didn’t think I could make it.

I was fried. Toast. Destroyed. My legs barely worked. My left foot was in some strange clubfoot mode. So I walked. Very, very slowly, until I reached my house again, some 2 miles later. I slumped in a chair in our yard and closed my eyes. I wanted to quit. I could not go on. I had done this twice. What’s the point? Why did I do this?

It was then my wife told me our youngest son Ray and his wife were on their way from Lacey, Wash., a six-hour drive, to watch me.

Now, I couldn’t quit.

I GOT up and began a shuffle. Gradually, life returned to my legs. I started running. Slowly, but I was running.

When my legs balked, I speed walked. There was a slight chance I might make the final cutoff. When I could run, people cheered me on like I was leading an Olympic race.

At one point, my wife, three sons, two daughter-in-laws and my grandson Harrison were cheering me on when I passed our home. Ray, on crutches after recent knee surgery, easily kept pace with me for a block.

Their support gave me hope. I dug deeper.

It gave me life.

It gave me resolve.

But not enough.

At 18.5 miles, as I was about to begin the third and final loop in the dark at McEuen Park, an Ironman official stepped in front of me on the course.

“I have to stop you here. Sorry. You missed the cutoff. I’m going to need the chip.”

I knew it was coming, so I wasn’t really even disappointed. It was more like, ‘What took you so long?’

I unstrapped the chip from my ankle and asked how much I missed the cut by. Three minutes, he said. It was 9:55 p.m.

So close.

I was satisfied knowing I hadn’t quit. They had to stop me.

A woman who arrived right after me was also stopped by the Ironman official. When he said her race was done, she screamed. She cried. She ran past him down the path, collapsing in a heap of tears and sobs. “I can do it!” she shouted. “Don’t stop me!”

A friend consoled her and even I tried to offer some encouraging words.

“You know, we did our best out there on a very difficult course and in crazy heat. Sometimes, it just doesn’t work out. But you be proud of what you did.”

We didn’t quit, I told her. We kept going as long as we could.

She stared at me, took off the ankle strap, and tossed it on the ground.

LATER, BACK home looking at the online results, I saw that it said I had missed the bike cut.

Not sure why no one stopped me then, but I was glad they didn’t. I wouldn’t have enjoyed the misery of the run. My son also later told me he saw I had missed the bike cut, but didn’t want to tell me during the run. I’m glad he didn’t. I would have called it a day.

Overcoming pain, struggle and doubt, dealing with the unexpected, pushing through when you want to quit, never surrendering, is what Ironman is about.

I did that.

This time, I took pride in failure.

And I keep telling myself... if not for two flat tires, I would have been an Ironman again!

Bill Buley is assistant managing editor of The Press. He can be reached at 208-416-5110, and bbuley@cdapress.com