WELCOME -- Three years after a car accident almost crushed the life out of him, Brian Boyle's body is catching up with his spirit.

Tomorrow, the St. Mary's College junior will toe the starting line with more than 1,500 triathletes to compete in the Ford Ironman World Championship in Kailua-Kona, Hawaii. The competition - a marathon run, a 112-mile bike ride and a 2.4-mile swim - tests the physical and mental limits of participants. But, in many ways, that's the easy part for Boyle, whose muscled torso is stitched with angry-looking scars and whose skin still releases flecks of black paint and shards of glass.

Winning isn't in the cards. Boyle, 21, has been training for a few months and has only a half-triathlon and last month's Annapolis Triathlon under his belt. But winning, he says, isn't the point - at least for now.

"Friends say, 'Brian, you're a miracle.' I didn't believe it at first. I was [angry]. I was bitter. But I believe that now. I want to inspire people who have been in an accident, regular people who don't have hope. I want to ignite the fire in them," he says.

Coming home from swimming practice on a back road near his Charles County home on July 6, 2004, Brian Boyle reached the intersection of Poorhouse and Ridley roads, a dangerous junction with limited visibility that has been a source of contention in the neighborhood. As he eased his Chevy Camaro out from the stop sign, a massive dump truck roared from the blind spot to his left and plowed into the driver's side door.

"I was going home, and that's the last thing I remember," he says. "The mind is good that way."

Pictures taken by the La Plata Volunteer Fire Department show there was little left of the front seats. The list of what was wrong with Boyle seemed longer than what was still OK: His heart was dislodged, he had broken ribs, clavicle and pelvis and had lost 60 percent of his blood.

Dr. Said Daee, the head of Prince George's Hospital Center's trauma team that day, said a colleague assessing Boyle's injuries wondered aloud about the value of performing surgery.

"No," Daee recalls replying, "I have to do this. I have to try."

While repairing the damage, Daee says, "Two times I remember saying, 'Oh God, I'm losing this guy.' Not too many people expected him to make it."

His mother, JoAnne, remembers the call from the hospital, which offered few details. But knowing that Prince George's was the region's trauma center gave her chills.

When JoAnne Boyle met her husband, Garth, in the waiting room of Prince George's Hospital Center, a nurse asked whether Brian was their only child.

"When we said, 'Yes,' she got tears in her eyes," JoAnne Boyle recalls.

But whether it was the Lucky Charms he had for breakfast, the skill of the Prince George's medical team, his youth and conditioning or all of the above, Boyle survived the first day and then a second one. He spent two months in a coma as doctors worked to save his life and then to help him function again.

Total commitment

Daee, a surgeon for 27 years, insists that all the expert medical care in the world wouldn't have mattered without Boyle's youth and spirit and his parents' total commitment to their son. "He's not a crybaby. He's a fighter and a fantastic young man," Daee says.

His parents rarely left the hospital. The inside of the pantry door in his parents' kitchen is covered with 154 sticky visitor's passes from Prince George's. It wasn't long before hospital staff began talking to his parents about finding an assisted living facility closer to home. Their son, the experts said, would never walk and most likely would not be able to care for himself.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, Boyle saw his parents crying and had the vague sense that something was horribly wrong. Although he was in pain, his parents seemed to be in more.

"Every day was a roller coaster. Some ups and some downs, but mostly downs," JoAnne Boyle says. "Every day Brian looked different. Every day was a new obstacle."

Boyle acknowledges that, after the first month, when he couldn't speak or move, he gave up hope.

"I realized my dreams were over. I wanted to go to college, to be a Navy SEAL. I didn't want to be a vegetable. I said my last prayers to end the suffering. I was ready to go. I didn't care anymore," he says.

But the next thing he knew, his father was yelling at him, cursing a blue streak, telling Brian that if he didn't make it, he, Garth, wasn't going to, either.

The young man with the heart and soul of an athlete began competing - to live - again.

Having prided himself on "being Mr. Buff," Boyle was shaken to see his muscles had atrophied and he had lost more than 100 pounds. At first, he couldn't believe the tasks he faced in physical therapy. "'Brian, squeeze this towel,' they'd say," he recalls. "This towel? My therapy wasn't about learning to walk, it was about holding a towel."

After two months, Boyle transferred to Baltimore's Kernan Hospital for a week of intense rehabilitation and was then sent home to continue outpatient therapy. Out in the yard beside two trees sat the mangled Camaro.

"I'd go out there and sit there and look at it. It was my inspiration," he says.

Inspiration came from unexpected sources, too. Swimmer Gary Hall Jr., the 10-time Olympic medalist, e-mailed him, urging him not to give up. His coaches at St. Mary's promised him there would always be a place on the team for him. Teammates called with encouragement.

His parents made good on their promise to install an in-ground pool in the backyard if he recovered. Soon, Boyle was thinking, "Wouldn't it be cool to get in the pool and doggy paddle?"

He finally got up the nerve. It took him five minutes to do one lap, "but I got there."

Sam Fleming, a friend and swimming rival in high school, took him to the pool a second time and began working out with him.

Little by little, the swimmer who looked like Brian Boyle began stroking like him.

"He's always been a hard worker, and this wasn't any different," says Fleming, 20, of Charlotte Hall, also a teammate at St. Mary's. "It brought the team together. He was inspirational. We're happy to have him back."

Getting his shot

While online in May, Boyle checked out the Ironman site and sent an e-mail, asking for advice on participating. His goal was several years off.

But Peter Henning, the executive producer of the Ironman television show, e-mailed back, saying if he could get medical clearance and finish a half-triathlon, Boyle could have a slot this year.

"We get a lot of stories over the transom that I'm suspect of, but after looking into Brian's story, it was clear we had the real deal," Henning says.

Obstacles one and two: Boyle, once a mountain biker, didn't have a road bike, let alone have any experience pedaling one.

Obstacle three: He didn't have a coach.

Cannondale supplied two bikes. A Canadian company, 4Ever Fit, supplied protein drinks.

On his own, Boyle pedaled a stationary bike, swam in the family pool and ran on a treadmill. He passed his medical tests. And on Aug. 4, he completed a half-triathlon in Benton Harbor, Mich.

But not without some rough spots on the bike.

"I only used two gears. I had guys passing me saying, 'Get out of that gear,'" he says, grinning. "I had a 68-year-old lady pass me on a bike, and that was not cool."

On the transition from bike to the run, Boyle fell off the seat backward. As he crossed the finish line seven hours after he started, his parents burst into tears and Henning broke into a huge smile.

On Sept. 9, he took part in the inaugural Annapolis Triathlon, a 1.5-kilometer swim, 38K bike ride and 10K run. Of the 853 men to finish, Boyle was 460th.

Next up, Hawaii

So now it's on to Kona for a 141-mile challenge. Competitors must finish the 2.4-mile swim, 112-mile bike ride and 26.2-mile run within 17 hours.

JoAnne Boyle just wants to see her son finish.

"This is like a dream that I actually get to see him do this," his mother says. "I'm a little nervous. I don't get scared after what we went through at the hospital."

Says Ironman's Henning: "This won't be the last time, I feel, we'll see Brian Boyle. If he doesn't finish, that will be part of the show, because it will be something dramatic. It won't be because he quit."

If this ends well, Boyle, who is majoring in graphic design, is toying with the idea of becoming a professional triathlete and motivational speaker.

"A cat has nine lives, and I guess I do, too," says Boyle, smiling and leaning back in a dining room chair, his hands locked around a knee. "I've used eight, so I've got one more. I'm going to use it wisely."

candy.thomson@baltsun.com