Iron Heart: The True Story of How I Came Back From the Dead

by Brian Boyle

  “Hey, Brian, is that you? Over here buddy.” I hear a cheerful voice coming from the side of the bike shop. A guy in a gray baseball cap, a black Cannondale T-shirt, tan cargo shorts, and a pair of flip-flops approaches. It’s Rudell.

  “It’s great to finally meet you!” I say enthusiastically, as I shake his hand and introduce him to my parents.

  He leads us to the side of the building where Cannondale mechanics have set up a workstation. He points to a high-tech, extremely lightweight triathlon bike that’s glimmering in the bright sunlight. “It’s all yours, Brian, top of the line, our Slice,” he says. “It’s our most advanced and aerodynamic bike. Use it instead of the CAAD8.”

  I’m speechless.

  “This bike won’t even be available to the public for another two months,” Bill says.

  I pick it up. It’s featherlight.

  For the next forty-five minutes, Bill and his crew make minor adjustments with the bike setup while I sit in the saddle. They want me to be as comfortable as possible. We then load the bike into my parents’ SUV rental to road test the Slice on the Queen K Highway.

  I carefully lift my leg over the bike seat with that same apprehension as when I first climbed onto the CAAD8 in early August. I clip my left foot into the pedal and push off with my right, quickly picking up speed. The steering is extra tight and shaky. I start clicking through the gear levers, which are located at the ends of the aero bars extending out front of the regular handlebars. I try to crouch in the aero position, but it feels too forced and unfamiliar, so I remain upright.

  I bike for about fifteen minutes while my parents trail behind in the SUV. Thankfully, the traffic is light. I finally get the confidence to lean forward into the aero position and I wrap my fingers around the gear levers.

  Then whoosh! A big tractor-trailer passes on my left, and the windy wake causes me to wobble all over the shoulder. It’s lucky I don’t crash. I slam on the brakes and hop off the bike. I’m visibly shaking. I can’t do this. I’m not yet ready for this bike; it’s way out of my league. It’s like being handed the keys to a Ferrari right after getting a driver’s license. But how am I going to tell Bill and the guys from Cannondale? My parents walk toward me, not saying anything because they saw what just happened. They help me lift the bike back into the SUV and we drive silently back to the bike shop. “That’s a great bike,” I miserably tell my parents, “but I don’t think I’m going to be able to ride it this weekend.” They think it’s a wise decision.

  I inform Bill that I can’t ride the Slice. It’s too advanced for my skill level. He looks at me and says, “I agree with you 100 percent, but if you finish the race, this bike is all yours. How does that sound?”

  I stare at him for several seconds. A weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I give Bill a triumphant high five and tell him that I will do my best on race day.

  People have asked me why I even want to do the Ironman after going through all that pain and suffering in the recent past. There’s an old saying that goes something like this: “A person hasn’t lived until he has almost died, and for those who have fought for life, the world has a flavor the protected will never know.” Life is all about taking risks and accepting challenges when faced with adversity. This sentiment might seem like a cliché, but to survivors like myself, it means never giving up.

  Race day is here. I wake up at four in the morning. The balcony outside my hotel room has an ideal view of the Kona pier. There’s already plenty of commotion and bright lights. In three hours, I will be swimming in the bay with nearly two thousand other triathletes. I still can’t believe it. I sit in the dark in a pair of blue board shorts with a bowl of oatmeal and some coffee, watching and waiting. I finish my breakfast and walk into my parents’ room. I can tell by their demeanor that they are more nervous than I am.

  As we take the elevator down to the lobby, my mom asks, “Do you think you’re really ready for this?”

  “Mom, I don’t know if I’ll finish, but I’m going to give it everything I have.”

  The elevator doors open and triathletes are moving in every direction, with duffel bags slung over their shoulders and water bottles in their hands. This morning, everyone seems more subdued than usual.

  As much as I want to blend in with these serious competitors, I’m hiding behind an artificially confident façade. Deep down, I’m petrified.

  We make our way to the pier where I get my race number inked on my arms and legs—163.

  I enter the bike transition area—it’s a shiny metallic sea of gleaming expensive machinery. It takes me a while to tape all three PowerBars and ten PowerBar gels on top of the handlebars. The other bikes have one or two gels and a single energy bar taped to their top tubes. I feel embarrassed because it looks like I’m getting ready to go on a picnic instead of preparing for a race.

  The countdown has begun—twenty minutes to the 7:00 a.m. start. I hug my parents and tell them not to worry too much.

  I get focused. Really focused.

  With my swim cap and goggles dangling in one hand, I walk down the stone steps that lead to the swim start. Because the beach is too small to accommodate all the triathletes, almost everyone self-seeds in the shallow water by swimming out fifty to a hundred yards, with stronger swimmers positioning themselves near the front. That’s where I situate myself because I think I can handle it this time. Right in the middle.

  The one hundred or so pros take off at 6:45 a.m. with a fifteen-minute head start over the rest of the field. As I tread water waiting for the cannon blast to signal our start, the sun rises over the Big Island mountains to the east.

  Then boom !

  The Ironman begins.

  The bay instantly turns into a white chaos of moving bodies. I’m getting kicked, punched, clawed, scratched, dunked, pulled back, and crushed by swimmers, and I’m doing the same right back to them because I learned my lesson the hard way at Steelhead in Lake Michigan. It’s dogeat-dog, every man and woman for themselves. You just have to keep your cool and swim aggressively, which is what I do.

  I’m moving along with a steady group of swimmers, but after about twenty minutes, I feel a sharp pain in my right calf. Ah, the most important race of my life and I get a muscle cramp, which is something I’ve never had before in years of swimming. I try to kick it out by loosening up the tightly clenched muscle fibers. I use my left leg to pick up the slack.

  When I reach the halfway point and swim around the stationary boat, I check my watch. Thirty-seven minutes—I’m making good time. I hope I didn’t go out too quickly. I have another 1.2 miles to swim.

  I ease up a bit heading back to the pier. I swim toward a pack of swimmers and stay behind the feet of a large swimmer. The drafting saves me energy. The pesky leg cramp won’t go away, however.

  Before long, I approach the pier. I hear the loud roars of spectators cheering and people blowing air horns. As I climb unsteadily up the ramp, an NBC cameraman shadows every step.

  I jog through the showers to rinse away the salt water and then pick up my transition bag and change into my bike clothes. I look down at my watch: 1:11. Not bad. I feel rejuvenated. I trot over to where my CAAD8 Cannondale bike awaits and roll it out of the transition area, with the NBC cameraman still trailing closely.

  I spot my parents beside the transition exit and give them a thumbs-up as I ride away. The sidewalks are packed with spectators. I feel like I’m riding in the Tour de France. The first few miles of the bike course make a circle around town. Then we climb diagonally up the mountainside on Kuakini Drive south toward a left turn at the Queen K Highway whereupon the road heads north, high above the coast. I’m extra cautious as I follow a long line of cyclists, keeping a safe distance between myself and other riders. I’m holding onto the handlebars for dear life. Several riders have already crashed. Paramedics are carting off one triathlete in an ambulance.

  Once I leave town and ride along the Queen Ka’ahumanu Highway, my tension fades because there’s a lot more
riding room. I’m passed by hundreds of cyclists who cruise right by my left shoulder. I continually hear “on your left” as if it is on a tape loop. I try to pay these other triathletes little heed. But after an hour of pedaling through the bleak lava desert, I’m pretty much riding on my own. I wish there were spectators cheering. Instead, it’s just the lonely road, my three bottles of orange Gatorade, a canister of salt pills, two extra tire tubes and a CO2 cartridge for a flat tire, PowerBar gels and PowerBars—and my random thoughts.

  As I’m going up a long sweeping hill, I see a helicopter hovering in the sky up ahead. My goodness! Here come the pros from the other direction. Their speed is awesome. I’m guessing they’re biking thirty miles per hour. I wonder what it must be like to be that good.

  I’m biking at a steady seventeen- to twenty-miles-per-hour clip. Every fifteen minutes, I take a nice long sip of Gatorade. Every forty-five minutes I eat a PowerBar gel; and every ninety minutes, I have a PowerBar and a salt pill to prevent cramping in the heat. At Steelhead, I barely drank during the bike portion. If I don’t stay fed and hydrated in Hawaii, I might as well stand by the side of the road with my thumb out looking for a ride back to the transition area. Some experts say the Ironman isn’t simply a race but a marathon eating contest. You can consume up to eight thousand or nine thousand calories in a single day. Nutrition is the fourth discipline in triathlon. I load up with water at the aid stations every ten miles.

  About thirty-five miles into the bike portion begins the brutal seventeen-mile climb to the turnaround in the sleepy little village of Hawi. This section of road rises six hundred feet in altitude and often into fierce headwinds. I’m not prepared for this, because I did most of my bike training in a parking lot and around a high school track.

  I try to imitate some of the other riders as they labor up the climb. I use the small front chain ring and the largest rear gear cog—the easiest combination. But it takes all my energy to keep my legs pumping. I notice that some riders are not sitting but standing out of their seats. I try that for a while. Adding insult to injury is a howling headwind.

  A woman to my left in her late thirties is riding a red Cannondale bike, same model as mine. She’s out of her seat pedaling. “Nice bike!” I shout between gasps of air. She looks over with a half smile as sweat rolls down her sunburned face. I can’t keep up with her and she pulls ahead.

  I suffer in silence, fighting the temptation to stop and rest. Because of the stress from the climb, my right calf seizes up. The cramp from the swim has returned with a vengeance. I’m now primarily pedaling with my left leg, while wiggling my right leg. I’m probably biking at five miles per hour. Any slower, I will fall.

  With my body in rebellion, I can no longer postpone the inevitable. I can’t go any further. I have to take a break. For how long, I don’t know. I click out my left foot from the pedal but right before I come to a complete stop, I’m struck by a powerful mental vision of my parents waiting for me.

  Haven’t they done enough waiting for me over the years, especially when I was in Intensive Care? For two months, they waited to see if I would wake up, if I would live, if I would be able to speak. Now we have come all this way together, and so why am I questioning whether I have the strength and willpower to bike up this mountain? It’s no longer just me doing this race; it’s the three of us. This ride to Hawi is a significant piece of the giant puzzle of my recovery. But I can solve it only if I push through the fatigue and pain.

  So I don’t roll to a stop. I click my left foot back into the pedal, swallow some salt tablets, and continue riding in a renewed frenzy of determination.

  I remain in my seat, spinning at a high cadence. When that becomes tiring, I stand on the pedals, mashing them down with exhausted legs. Rivers of sweat are pouring down my face. I feel like I’m riding in an enormous oven and each time my feet rotate, I’m turning up the temperature dial even more.

  I’m nearly delirious with suffering. And then, there’s salvation, relief from the torment of heat, wind, fatigue. The ascent levels off and Hawi is just ahead. People line the streets, and the cheering provides me with a new source of power and energy. I zip around the turnaround, giving everybody waves and smiles, while preparing myself for the long descent.

  The downhill section is terrifying. I’m traveling so fast that the bike begins to shimmy. I must be going at least forty miles per hour. One small mishap and I’ll be torn to shreds by the fall. Yet I literally throw caution to the wind. I hold on tighter to the handlebars. It might be called a death grip. But I recognize it as a “life grip.” I let out a cry of triumph and victory that acts as an emotional release of all the built-up aggression, bitterness, frustration, and anger from the past few years.

  I don’t remember the accident on July 6, 2004, so I don’t know if my life “flashed before my very eyes” like most survivors say it does, but in this sustained moment, as I’m barreling down the mountain, I start having a series of memory flashbacks: waking up from the coma in the hospital; seeing white-sheet covered dead bodies rolled out on gurneys; having my parents visit three times a day; being confined to a wheelchair. Thoughts are rushing by at such velocity that I can’t even keep up with them. When I finally reach the bottom of the mountain, my cheeks are wet—not with sweat but with tears of joy.

  Energized and cleansed of emotional pain, I have little difficulty making the fifty-six-mile ride back to Kona. I bike at a steady, moderate pace, with a newfound sense of tranquility and peace. I feel at home on the endless lava fields, with the Pacific Ocean on the right, Kohala mountain to the left, and the tropical sun overhead. This is the happiest day of my life.

  After seven and a half hours, I finally arrive at the transition area by the pier. I repeat to myself, “Don’t crash now; don’t you dare crash!” I cautiously click my feet out of the pedals and a volunteer hurries over to assist me. I have trouble walking, but I have to keep moving if I want to finish before the midnight cutoff. I pick up my run transition bag, then sit down in the changing tent. An NBC cameraman is by my side. Two Ironman volunteers drape me with cold towels. I’m fumbling to put my running shoes on, as another volunteer dries me off and sprays sunscreen on my sun-baked shoulders.

  I stand up on shaky legs and strap a hydration belt around my waist for extra fluids. It’s time to go “run” a marathon.

  The crowds excite me. I’m drawing energy from all the spectators as I slowly jog through Kona. “Keep it up, number 163! Lookin’ good,” one lady shouts holding up a big poster board that says Good luck Ironman athletes! When I pass a group of surfer dudes with mohawks who are standing by their sticker-plastered pickups, one yells, “You’re a beast!”

  A female racer in a sky-blue bikini, sporting an Ironman logo on her gorgeously tanned stomach, smiles at me and says that my running stride looks good. I thank her and do a double take as I pass her.

  Even though my legs are stiff and wooden, I make it to the five-mile aid station on Alii Drive in fairly good shape. My sole concern is foot blisters caused by all the cups of water that I’ve been splashing all over my shoes and socks.

  The next several miles become increasingly tough. I decide to walk one minute for every mile jogged. The walking serves as a small reward for making headway.

  I begin having tunnel vision, barely noticing any of the other runners, most of whom now pass me. My focus is the hot asphalt and where to place my feet.

  My longest training run had been two hours. That took me to ten miles. As I make my way up the steep Palani Road, out of the town, and onto the Queen K Highway, I reach my endurance threshold. Keeping my feet moving is all I can hope for. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, and so on. I have gone from jogging to a light bouncing walk. My pace has slowed to a fifteen-minute mile.

  “Hey, Brian! Over here, son, over here.” I hear the sound of my dad’s voice coming from a large group of people to my left. I see him with my mom. They ask how I’m feeling.

  “I’m doing all right. Thin
gs are good,” I lie with a straight face.

  The sun is starting to set on the Queen K. The warm yellows and bright oranges in the sky mix with horizontal bands of blues and purples. The pros and top age-groupers have already finished the race several hours ago. I envy them. I still have a long way to go. At the next aid station, a volunteer hands me a Day-Glo chemical stick to wear around my neck because there are no lights along the pitch-dark Queen K.

  I now celebrate each mile with a three-minute walking spree. No matter how badly this hurts, the suffering is only temporary, I keep reminding myself. Nor am I the only one experiencing extreme discomfort. Some runners are bent over like hunchbacks. Others are walking. Several are just standing and trying to rub out a leg cramp. To the few people whom I happen to edge by, I say something motivational, such as “Keep it up,” “You’re doing good,” or “We’re almost there.” Misery likes company on the Queen K.

  Night comes quickly in the tropics. The magical hues and luminescent colors in the sky have faded to black. The solid darkness reminds me of being in the coma. Except for the terrifying dreams, it was absolutely dark most of the time. The only things now visible are neon green glow sticks jiggling about racers’ necks.

  Unlike other back-of-the-packers, I sometimes have company. Every few minutes, a moped zips past with an NBC cameraman on the back. An NBC red convertible Mustang is also trailing me. Ken the cameraman sits in the backseat. He’s a great guy. I met him in September when he came to my house to get footage of my parents and me for the NBC Ironman telecast.

  Each mile is devoured in slow motion. Thankfully, it’s much cooler. While my body hurts all over from the accumulated exhaustion, it’s a different kind of hurt than I experienced in the hospital. Then, the pain was out of my control. I was its unwilling victim. But here, I’m causing the pain by running. It’s self-inflicted. I could always stop, quit the race. But that will never happen. I won’t allow it.