Peter Nerothin; Before and After

“Hey Pete, you back there?” I take a drag from my cigarette, leaving the question suspended in mid-air with hopes that its source might disappear. “Break’s over! Table twelve needs another bowl of rice...and the guy at the bar says we’re out of toilet paper.” I’ve got a college degree he can use, I think to myself.

I’m startled by the sound of an alarm clock at 7:30 a.m. The morning sun is making an early statement among a few scattered clouds, prompting my anticipation of a grueling 90-mile ride in the hours to come. I’m submerged in the sophisticated tasks and calculations that come with being an insulin-dependant gearhead on the verge of an adventure. “Sorry if my alarm woke you,” murmurs a roommate between stretches and yawns. I offer a shrug in return, veiling my true thoughts: “Woke me? I’m already back from a two-hour swim.”

Another night at the restaurant draws to a close and I’m reminded that I’ll be back again tomorrow. For a moment, I lose this thought in a mouthful of brandy and the piles of small bills which account for tonight’s earnings. I swallow and shudder myself back to reality. Alas, it’s nearly midnight and I’m in the midst of a 60-hour work week.

Four hours into my ride – still one to go. The afternoon heat is beginning to take its toll and my legs are pleading their case to call it a day. I ease off after a long hill climb and reach to my jersey pocket, where my lancet is readily accessible. A swift finger prick at 15 mph draws a drop of blood and a chuckle – I wouldn’t have chewed bubble gum at half this speed 12 months ago! A One Touch Ultra glucometer, rigged between my aerobars to eliminate unnecessary stops, reads 118 mg/dL, but already my face is stuffed with a fig bar. I’ve now consumed over 300 carbohydrates on a mere 4 units of Lantus insulin. Replenished, I notice another biker a half mile ahead, drop a gear and simulate race-day to the best of my imagination. “Embrace the pain, Pete. You’re an Ironman.”

I shuffle into a decrepit Minneapolis apartment, not surprised to find my roommate hidden behind a haze of second-hand smoke. “Hey Nero, you want a drink?” – “Not tonight, dude,” I reply, wishing I had a dollar for every time I’d been a part of this dialogue. “Big day tomorrow.” I throw my things on top of the growing pile of credit card statements in an act of defiance on my way to the kitchen, where my customary shot of Humalog and bowl of Cap’n Crunch await. Each bite leads me to wish I could live my whole life in its subtle delight. I imagine the Cap’n inviting me to drop everything and set sail with him for the happy and simplistic world of breakfast icons. Tony the Tiger would be there. So would that Lucky Charms Leprechaun. Everyone would be wearing those radiant cereal-box smiles. No need for insulin here, and all the crunchberries a guy could eat.

I slip into my Asics, empty my bladder and allow a few minutes to loosen up after a long day in the saddle. Six short miles stand between me and blissful recovery. Within a few strides I’m in running comfortably, trying to capture this fleeting sensation of invincibility, knowing I might never again be in such shape.

The ten-second dash to my old Mazda has me winded, but not sweating - It’s another bitterly cold January morning and my day has begun before sunrise. Already it has dragged on, for my car battery has not survived the night. Right now I’m wishing I’d have shared the same fate.

My bed has never been so inviting. I collapse and accept its soft embrace, my hair still damp from the richly deserved shower of all showers. My voracious hunger has been satisfied, my blood-sugar is stable, and I am happy. The sun still rests boldly in the Western sky, but for me night has already come. I renounce these last idyllic moments of consciousness to reflection; human nature is stubborn and compels me beyond the beauty of the present, to the nostalgic past and the promising future:

I think of the empty existence I left behind two years ago when boarding a plane bound for New Zealand, of a lifestyle offering little but physical and moral exhaustion, of how burdensome life had seemed. And I think of the leap of Faith that made all the difference.

As I was selling my car on the way to the airport, there was no way to anticipate the months ahead and how they would shape my future. And so it goes in life; only in retrospect does it begin to make sense; far enough removed from past experience, one sees the thread of destiny weaving in and out of unrelated events in a way that offers a cohesive significance to the present.

Without knowing why, I told Lifescan I’d become an Ironman in exchange for diabetic supplies on the eve of an ambiguous journey. Without knowing how, I willed my way around the world on empty pockets, from the roof of Africa to the slums of Calcutta, from Fiji’s tranquil beaches to Cairo’s frenzied streets. Without knowing when, I stopped taking for granted the things of which my body and mind are capable. For better or worse, I find myself here today.

I turn my attention now to the future, beyond the Ironman finish line. Here my vision extends outward in an effort to inspire diabetics to strive for healthier lives. Finally I begin to see the manifestation of childhood dreams within the framework of a career. Meanwhile, formerly vague plans to summit Europe’s highest peak in Russia from Earth’s lowest point in Israel take form as a long-term, team-oriented expedition.

At last I’m no match for sleep. I’ve fended her off all day, but no more. My thoughts unravel into fragments of disoriented dreams, set aside for reassembly at the start of another day…