So many times this past week his dominating lead in the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race might have allowed him to breathe easy, but Swingley had trouble breathing most of the way.

Swingley doesn't know if he broke ribs, or just bruised them so badly they vibrated like a tuning fork when his sled runners hit a pothole. But from the moment he tipped over his dog sled just out of Wasilla on March 7 until he passed under the burled arch on Front Street here early Wednesday morning, Swingley was in pain.

Every day we heard how swiftly, how impressively the Montana musher's dogs ran. Then we heard how he patched a broken sled together, using duct tape and a willow branch.

But the 45-year-old Lincoln, Mont., musher's biggest achievement in the 27th-annual Iditarod was how he held his own body together. For 1,100 miles. Over rugged trail. Through howling winds.

Swingley's mush to Nome - never faltering, guiding a superior dog team through harsh weather to crush a field of 55 other competitors - may have been one of the most courageous of all time.

Anyone who has ever injured ribs knows how the simplest inhalation can provoke a grimace. Anyone who has ever stood on sled runners knows how the slightest trail bump reverberates through the body. The combination? Gruesome. The combination for virtually the entire race? Almost unfathomable.

"You'd have to be very mentally tough," said Mike Webber of Nome, a 1996 Iditarod musher who once banged up a knee and steeled himself to finish another 60 miles of a training run. "You put it out of your mind until you finish. It's a lot of jarring. You have to block it out."

Swingley did not make much of his injury on the trail. And he did not make much of it here when he began collecting his championship loot - a $60,000 check and a $38,000 Dodge truck.

Until asked.

"Aleve is great stuff," said Swingley.

Aleve is a pain reliever. He swallowed the medication like M&Ms as he mushed along.

Who knows, it may have made the difference between flinching and folding.

Leaving the official start line a week-and-a-half ago, Swingley turned his team of 16 dogs out of the Wasilla Municipal Airport, and made a tight, 90-degree right turn. Then he made the mistake of looking down when the trail called for an immediate, sharp left turn.

He made the zig, but he didn't make the zag. The sled crashed, and Swingley fell off.

"My battery pack hit me in the chest," said Swingley.

Crunch went the ribs.

After that, Swingley became acutely aware of that portion of his anatomy. If he got dehydrated - a completely unrelated complication - his ribs bothered him more. Take a little water with your Aleve, Doug.

Of course, Swingley's least enjoyable part of the trail was the devastating 30-mile stretch between Finger Lake and Rainy Pass. Race officials warned mushers how treacherous that area would be. Uneven. Torn up. Choppy.

The trail lived up to its billing, forcing many mushers to drop dogs. It was an almost-ridiculous journey for a man with bad ribs.

"My whole left side has been numb at times," said Swingley.

There is not much you can do for damaged ribs. Doctors look at the X-rays and if the ribs are bruised, they say: Rest for a few weeks. If the ribs are broken, they say: Rest for a few weeks.

Guaranteed, they do not say: Go out and mush 1,100 miles.

Swingley chose his own treatment plan - chowing down on Aleve and gritting his teeth.

Why not? He chose his own racing plan and that paid off with his second win.

Now that he is on level ground, far removed from the ruts of the trail, Swingley said he might stop in at Norton Sound Regional Hospital for a diagnosis.

But, really, why bother? What are the doctors going to tell him? Yep, you broke a couple, rest. Or, no, just battered, rest.

Rest? After 91/2 weary days on the trail, Doug Swingley's plan matches the doctors' identically. He proved he can take a ribbing and keep on ticking.

* This column is the opinion of Daily News sports editor Lew Freedman