My iron-tale starts like most. The sun rising bright over the water, the clock striking seven, the cannon’s roar. Two thousand strong, all racing into the warm, windy day. Some fast, some slow and me, somewhere in the middle. The beginning of Ironman Wisconsin 2005 was like many triathlons before. Long, easy strokes; comfort found in a wetsuit. A mundane transition, a quick wave to my family, and away on the bike. Very much on schedule and ready for the real work to begin.

A decade ago, I went the Ironman distance in Canada. That day started much the same… on pace, on time, never faltering. I eventually finished, ecstatic and ahead of schedule. For ten years, I’ve been trying to repeat that August day; to put everything together just right. After leaving T1 in Madison, I noticed the wind… and then the heat. It was still early, but both were rising fast. By mile 56, DNFs were mounting and ambulance sirens were beginning what would become a busy day in and out of aptly named Mad City.

As I began my second loop, I was still on schedule and ready to roll with the many hills surrounding Mt. Horeb and Verona. But as I reached tiny Cross Plains, a different story started to unfold. My always-questionable gut began to close, my head started to swim, my vision blurred. Something was very wrong.

I took a break, tried to hydrate without success and got back on the bike. Within just a few miles I was back on the roadside, ice dripping down my forehead, dazed eyes staring at the sky, listening to rider after rider whir past, trying to get a grip on my race… and the hum of the flies.

By the time I finally rolled, weaved, stumbled and faltered into Madison, my day was already over. Without even entering T2, my 2005 Ironman was done. Official M-Dot DNF #2 was in the books.

This is the point where I could tell you I broke into tears. I suppose I could write paragraphs about the hours of training, the bitter disappointment, the suffering, the sacrifice, blah, blah, blah...

But it’s more appropriate to tell you about my childhood friends, Rachel and Kathy, who were each recently displaced by Hurricane Katrina. And my cousin, Scott, who spent month after month dodging the insanity in Iraq. And friend and training partner, Kevin, who just days before I left for Wisconsin was run off the rode and now sits with titanium plates holding his spinal cord intact. Each of them knows what it’s like to suffer, to be afraid, to be sad, and to stand tall in adversity’s face. These people deserve to shed a tear. I don’t.

After I returned to my hotel, I took a cold, cold shower, slept for a couple hours and got my stomach and head working together again. At 9:00 p.m., I wandered back near the finish line while my family slept and cheered the many, many late-night arrivals. It was inspiring to see both friends and strangers – all part of the Ironman family – making it to that wonderful Wisconsin finish line.

In more than 20 years of racing, I’ve entered hundreds of events. Three now say “Peter Ylvisaker - DNF.” That gives me more complete games, I guess, than any of today’s starting pitchers and a better finishing percentage than any NASCAR driver (along with better-looking legs).

In the past year, I was lucky enough to race the world’s most storied marathon just months after running one of midwest America's newest and smallest. I raced at high altitude and at sea level, on trails and streets, in pools and lakes. I even spent time on triathlon’s age-group podium. Who am I to complain?

In two decades, I’ve realized that the highs and lows are only temporary. This sport keeps me measured. When I get too big, it smacks me back to reality. When I’m down, it picks me up.

Now a few days since dropping out in Madison, I’m back on the roads in Iowa, pedaling quickly as the sun rises – just like it did on race day – loving my life. How can I whine about one lousy race when the sport and this lifestyle have both given me so much? I enjoy each morning ride, just like I will relish today’s run, tonight’s swim, and every race I will start in the years ahead.

In two weeks, I’m going to run a marathon with my sister. It’ll be her first, and I’ll run with her from start to finish, every step, fast or slow. Is there a chance we won’t make it to the finish line? Yes. But the way I feel right now, I think the odds of raising our hands together across that line are very much in our favor!

Train On!