The day after Ironman 70.3 Coeur d’Alene, I am sitting in one of many chairs in our front yard looking at 19th Street. 

It is empty. 

Just 24 hours earlier, it was filled with weary runners and energetic volunteers. Our yard was full of family and friends, kids and grandkids, who came to root for us in the running segment of the race, which goes right by our home. 

As best I can recall, it was glorious.

Race morning 

I am standing on City Beach with my youngest daughter, Jennie, and my oldest son, Nick. We are minutes from starting the 1.2-mile swim in Lake Coeur d’Alene. It is a beautiful morning. The lake, thank the Lord, is calm. I am still a little nervous about going into the water and heading far out, but I am feeling blessed to be standing here with two of my kids, to be doing this race with them. I don’t think many parents will get such an opportunity. It’s crazy, really. A dad, father and daughter in Ironman 70.3. I wish we could stand here longer, laughing and talking, waving to family watching from the seawall, just enjoying the moment. But the clock is winding down. Our turn is almost here. I put my arms around my children and say a quick prayer. Seconds later, Nick and Jennie are swimming strongly away. I hesitate. I watch, take a few more steps, and finally, almost reluctantly, flop into the lake.  

The Swim 

I shake off a slow start, marked by lots of stops to catch my breath and gather my wits, and begin to hit a rhythm. Still, the red turnaround buoy seems to be miles away and I’m wondering where the heck it is. Eventually, it comes and it’s time to cut across the course and turn back. My confidence builds, so I swim faster. I look up, see the finish chute and give it pretty much all I have. I reach land and run through the tunnel toward the transition area. I am relieved and happy. I see my beautiful wife, stop and give her a kiss. It went well. 55 minutes. Nick finished in 41 minutes and Jennie in 45. As expected, they left me in their wakes.

The Bike 

I'm shivering on the bike early as I stop at my house, which is just off the bike course, and grab an orange vest. The more I pedal, the warmer I get. Heading south on U.S. 95, I remember why I hate this course: Up and down. Nonstop hills. Yet, I feel strangely confident and enjoy the ride. Blast the downhills, steady on the climbs. As I’m heading back toward Coeur d’Alene, there’s a strong headwind. Annoyed, I scream. It helps take the edge off and I laugh at myself. Other bikers look my direction, then quickly turn away, certain they’re seeing a crazy man about to snap. On the long Mica Grade downhill, I tuck in and let it rip, hitting speeds of about 35 mph. I am feeling surprisingly strong as I finish the 56 miles in 3 hours and 43 minutes, well behind Nick in 3:17 and Jennie in 3:19, despite a crash. 

The Run 

I had high hopes to make up time on the run. My legs did not. They refuse to follow commands to go faster and instead, shuffle along. A few miles in, I see my daughter headed the other direction. She is miles ahead.

“Jennie!” I shout. 

“Dad!” she shouts back as we slap hands. 

Right after her, comes Nick. 

“Nick, go get Jennie,” I shout. 

“She just passed me,” he shouts back. 

We slap hands, too. 

A pair of runners alongside me ask about the exchanges.

"Are those your kids?"

"Yes, son and daughter," I announce.

"Are you ahead of them?"

"No, miles behind. But I've got 30 years on them, so I should be."

"That's cool you're all out there," one of them says.

I agree.

When I reach our home, family and friends, grandkids, sons and daughter, await. It’s nice to have a cheering section waving signs and holding balloons. I stop to talk, high-five the grandkids, and push on. 

On the return on this double out-and-back course, past our home, I stop again. I’m not feeling great. My wife asks if I want to lay down in the yard.  

“If I lay down, I won’t be able to get up,” I answer.

Volunteers laugh as I hobble away. 

I see friends along the course, both as spectators and volunteers. Their cheers inspire and give me hope. For a short stretch, I run with a man from Phoenix. He notices the vocal crowd.

“You must be local. Everybody knows you,” he says. 

Miles later, by a mix of walking, running and stretching and an act of God, I near the finish line. I make the left turn from Fourth Street to Sherman Avenue. A man is shouting at me to dig in and push. What the hell, might as well. I charge hard down the center of Sherman. The shouts of the crowd carry me home. Finally, it’s over. 7 hours, 10 minutes. Jennie won family bragging rights in 6 hours, 11 minutes, passing Nick on the run, who finished in 6:33. 

The three of us hug, share some stories, and pose for pictures. As we walk to retrieve our gear, I can't help but smile as the words of an Emerson, Lake and Palmer song come to mind: "Ooh, what a lucky man he was. Ooh, what a lucky man he was."

Looking back 

There are days in life you remember better than others. The feelings, the people, the words, the actions, the moments, all come back when you close your eyes. I’ve done that a few times with Ironman 70.3 Coeur d’Alene. I remember standing on the beach that morning, knowing I was about to begin a great adventure with a son and daughter. 

Now that it is over, I admit I'm a bit sad. For the past few months most of my spare time went into morning swims at Sanders Beach, bike rides and runs on the North Idaho Centennial Trail and workouts in my homemade gym in the garage. My life had revolved around training for Ironman 70.3 CDA. It gave me focus. The routine I had come to enjoy was no longer necessary. I felt a bit lost. I wasn't sure what was next, what road I would take, what I would do in the days ahead.

Unless, of course ...

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Bill Buley is assistant managing editor of The Press. He can be reached at [email protected].