Even among people with whom he shares so much, Shad Ireland is an oddity. As the visitors entered and exited, many with the help of canes, walkers or wheelchairs, Ireland, 35, strode confidently through the corridors of the Fresenius Dialysis Center in Pearlridge Center, smiling warmly when a pair of eyes rose to meet his, smiling even when they didn't.

He claimed to be out of shape, but nothing in his compact, sinewy form seemed to support this. Then again, the standards of an Ironman finisher are different than the norm.

Ireland, a native of St. Paul, Minn., was in Honolulu last week to share his story, a story he hoped would inspire someone in the room the way he has been inspired so often these last few years. As the only dialysis patient ever to finish an Ironman Triathlon — he completed the 2.5 mile swim, 112-mile bike ride and 26.2 run at Ironman Lake Placid in 2004 — Ireland has gained a pulpit from which to preach his hard-earned message of personal belief and empowerment.

Ireland was diagnosed with membranoproliferative nephritis, a disease in which the immune system attacks the kidneys, at age 10. Without functioning kidneys to cleanse naturally accumulating toxins from his system, Ireland had to undergo regular dialysis while waiting for a kidney transplant.

"I was sick for 14 hours after every treatment," Ireland said. "I'd just be there crying and screaming and waiting to die. There was no hope, no way out, and I was frantic."

Ireland knew eight others who started dialysis at the same time. All are dead now.

It would take six years for Ireland's condition to stabilize. But that didn't mean the toll of all those dialysis treatments was any less; he simply got used to the pain and nausea. He became accustomed to the bouts of high blood pressure and anemia.

At 18, Ireland received a kidney transplant, but the organ would only survive for three years. (Another transplant would later fail.) The fallout of the first failed transplant was severe. Ireland lost nearly 70 pounds, almost half of his body weight, and exhaled whatever scant whiff of optimism he held inside.

Lying in the living room one afternoon, Ireland caught a television special on the Ironman Triathlon and was captivated. In a moment of rare inspiration he made a ridiculous, improbable vow: I'm going to do that one day.

What does the teenager do when he is told he has less than 10 years to live?

He sneaks his first cigarette. He takes a drink. He experiments with marijuana and cocaine. He stays out all night and doesn't allow himself to recognize his parents' heartbreak. He looks up at that great empty sky and says screw it.

At an age when the world seems all too large, when the lines of possibility explode in a million bewildering directions, Ireland understood one thing with absolute certainty: He would be dead by the time he was 25.

That was the official word from his doctors, and it would be years yet before Ireland understood just how much such official words are worth.

Why bother, Ireland reasoned, if the ending has already been written? And so he skipped medical appointments, strayed from his daily regimen of medications and blew off anything that didn't excite his sense of adventure. Instead, he drank and partied and took all the wrong drugs.

"I made a lot of poor decisions," Ireland said. "And a lot of those decisions were based on anger and a feeling of a loss of control."

Ireland's mother urged him to go to college. To Ireland, the idea didn't make any sense. He'd be dead before he could do anything with his degree. Why bother?

"If I was going to die," Ireland said, "I just wanted to hurry up the process."

What does the young man do when he awakens on his 25th birthday to find that he is still alive?

Does he seek the redemption of his misspent youth? Or does he light another cigarette, shake the cobwebs from a hangover, and ask, again, "Why?"

The doctors were wrong. Nothing was certain. While the transplant may not have lasted, there was no guarantee that Ireland would die anytime soon. But Ireland wasn't ready to hope.

Still, Ireland did agree to give college a try. He enrolled at Metropolitan State University and took a philosophy class that would serve as the beginning of his slow, sporadic but sure change of perspective.

His professor, Phil Bell, encouraged his charges to reflect on their experiences and examine the basis of their beliefs. During one conversation, Bell asked Ireland what it meant to be educated.

If being educated is a gift, Bell suggested, does one have a responsibility to share that gift?

The questions lingered at the back of Ireland's mind for weeks until he came across a man in a wheelchair.

"He was moving along with a smile on his face," Ireland recalled. "And I felt kind of guilty. I thought, 'What would this guy do to spend 20 minutes in my shoes?' What I had was a gift, and I was grateful for it. From that point, my perceptions changed, and I started treating people with more respect."

Ireland would go on to study computer science, eventually landing a job as a network engineer. The money was good, but Ireland hated the job and he wasn't heartbroken when he was later laid off.

What does the man living on borrowed time do when he finds his true passion? Does he let it pass? Does he embrace it for as long as he can?

He takes it to the limit and by doing so inspires others.

After the job layoff, Ireland celebrated his birthday with a few buddies. Late that night, drunk, a cigarette dangling from his lips, he recalled a vow he had once made to himself.

"So I told my friends that I was going to do the Ironman," Ireland said. "They all laughed, and I guess I would have, too, if I were them."

Ireland was 100 pounds of skin, bone and not much else. His arms were more like rifle barrels than guns. He didn't even own a bike.

But Ireland was serious. For six arduous months, even as he continued his regular schedule of debilitating dialysis treatments, Ireland trained the best he knew how. He ran without stopping. He gained weight. When he looked in the mirror, he marveled at the strange sight of hard muscle on his frame.

"The medical consensus was that there was no way a person on dialysis could ever finish an Ironman triathlon," Ireland said.

But Ireland eventually found a physician, an ultramarathoner, who was willing to work with him to safely achieve his goal.

He also found a coach, Dan Cohen, willing to train him in the ways of the triathlon. In one training cycle, Ireland cut his per-mile running pace from 14 minutes to eight minutes.

Even for healthy athletes, training for an Ironman involves mastering a delicate balance of stress, recovery, nutrition and mental preparation. For Ireland, the challenge was tenfold. Often he would jump on his bike right after dialyzing, battling through pain and fatigue from first pedal rotation to last. Because of the attention he had to pay to his sodium and potassium levels, Ireland couldn't rely on fruit, sports drinks and other energy-rich offerings available on the course.

And yet, somehow Ireland prevailed, surviving both the training and the race itself. And while his finishing time — 16 hours, 25 minutes and 10 seconds — was slow compared to other finishers, the accomplishment was both unprecedented and unequaled for a person with his condition.

"I was in more pain than I'd ever been in," Ireland said. "But I had a smile on my face the entire time. I just couldn't believe I was there and I was doing it. There are two reactions people have after doing the Ironman. One is, 'My God, I'm never doing that again.' The other is, 'I want to do it better!' I want to do it better. It's my passion."

And Ireland isn't done pursuing his own goals. He plans to compete in Ironman Canada in hopes of qualifying for the Ironman World Championship in Kona.

Time is likely short, however. The longest a person on dialysis lived 31 years.

"I probably have three years of racing left," he said. "Other people might be depressed by that, but I'm not. I'll do it for as long as I can.

"This is a gift," he said. "I love that I am able to do this and that I'm able to help others pursue what they love. An individual inspired can do anything and we have the ability to inspire others simply by doing what inspires us."

I'd just be there crying and screaming and waiting to die. There was no hope, no way out, and I was frantic.

Reach Michael Tsai at mtsai@honoluluadvertiser.com.