Peter Nerothin

My story as a diabetic athlete began in April 2003 with this letter to Lifescan, a pharmaceutical company to whom I’ll forever be indebted:

…Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Peter Nerothin and I am a type-I diabetic with a deep-rooted passion for physical extremity and outdoor adventure.

To anyone familiar with my condition, this statement reveals an appalling contradiction in terms. Although diabetics are said to be capable of living “normal lives,” an everything-in-moderation clause stringently limits what it means to do such a thing. But in my experience with diabetes, meticulous monitoring replaces moderation as the most important means to excellent blood-sugar control. And as an inspiration to diabetics around the world, I am ready to redefine what it means to lead a “normal life.”

Two-and-a-half years ago I was a healthy twenty-one year old backpacking alone through the streets of Europe. Never before had I felt so invincible and free. For me the timeless question, “Why am I here?” was being answered before my eyes. A burning bush couldn’t have made my calling more clear; this was only the beginning of a lifelong quest to experience the world. I began compiling a list of adventures, including the Great Barrier Reef, the Appalachian Trail, an African Safari, Kilimanjaro, Everest and beyond.

I’ll never forget the look my father gave me when I dismissed my initial glucose reading of 485 as “not such a big deal.” A physician by coincidence, his vacation had led him to Holland, where we’d met just before I’d fallen ill. Life would never be the same, he explained. There would be no more rustic hiking, marathon training or independent travel. The spur-of-the-moment romanticism that had once defined my life would be sidelined forever by a droning routine of insulin-dependency.

I learned quickly during my last year of college what it takes to be a “good diabetic.” As instructed, I took refuge under the predictable scheduling of academia, which conveniently spilled over into last year’s nine-to-five day as an Americorps volunteer. Excellent control, I justly concluded, is easily achieved by anyone with a wristwatch and a little self-discipline.

Unsurprisingly, a monotonous routine was more than I could handle by early this spring. The resounding call to adventure was slowly resurfacing, deeply accentuated against an unfitting lifestyle. Before I knew it, I had purchased an open-ended ticket to the world’s most enticing sanctuary for outdoor enthusiasts, New Zealand…

One year later I stepped off the plane to an agreeable spring evening in Minneapolis. Later that night, while unpacking the rucksack that’d been my home for so long, I opened my journal to the page entitled “Things to Do Before You Die.” Seeing a list so fully decorated with check marks and cross-offs helped me to realize the magnitude of what had just taken place: I’d climbed the world’s highest free standing mountain; negotiated the streets of Islamic Cairo; camped the breadth of the African Savannah and the jungles of Zaire; dipped in the Holy Ganges; surfed, skydived, bungee-jumped; dove the Great Barrier Reef; hitch-hiked the South Pacific; and trekked to the heart of Almighty Himalayas – Mt. Everest. In spite of all this, I couldn’t be gratified - a single item still remained on the list without any ornamental scribbles signifying its completion…

Suddenly it struck me that the complacent disposition I’d been enjoying just moments ago would come at a price exceeding any credit card balance. None of my unique traveling experiences would have been possible had it not been for my friends at Lifescan, who’d been gracious with their time and support beyond any of my most outrageous expectations. My promise to them, aside from coming home safe and healthy, was to train for and complete an Ironman triathlon.

For those unfamiliar, the title “Ironman” certainly lives up to its linguistic roots. Race participants are required to swim 2.4 miles, bike 112, then complete a full marathon (yes, all in the same day), a daunting endeavor for an accomplished athlete, much less a moderately active diabetic. Nevertheless, I claimed to be “ steadfast in my belief that (glucose) control is never a problem to the watchful eye ” and remained “willing to push my body to new limits.” Looking back on my travels, this seemed to be a valid statement. And if my experiences weren’t enough, I’d recently discovered that a half-dozen juvenile diabetics were currently among the ranks of thousands of Ironman finishers. It was clear there was no decision to be made; I was bound by my pledge, which now seemed quite possible to honor.

After selling my soul to a sport I’d only seen on television, I was surprised to see a gloomy sense of duty rapidly develop into a furrow of excitement. Within a few months I’d gained a whole new perspective on life. Suddenly aware of my previous ineptitude at anything demanding focus or follow-through, I could see that I’d never been forced to prioritize my life in a way that demanded commitment to anything. Now, despite shortened days due to intensive training, I found myself performing at a higher level and accomplishing much more in- and outside the world of fitness. Inspiration became circular, as success at each of life’s discipline’s fed into the next.

The guesswork that made up my early insulin-dosages led to occasional frustration. However, as part of my development as an endurance athlete, I was learning to pursue solutions rather than dwell on problems. With detailed evaluation and care I grew to understand and respect the intricate marvels of my body. Though diabetes had controlled me in the past, I could sense a shift in roles toward complete and permanent reversal.

In May of 2005, six weeks prior to Ironman Coeur d’Alene, I was invited to attend DESA’s (Diabetes Sports and Exercise Association) annual conference in West Chester, Pennsylvania. Having accepted an honorable mention award I’d been offered for my leadership in diabetes, I began questioning the purity of my motives. In a letter to my girlfriend, I wrote:

“I’m so fed up with this stupid race. I’m tired of the elitist mentality, the ego, marching under the banner of diabetes advocacy, trying to sell myself. I don’t want to go to Philadelphia. I never want to hear the word ‘Ironman’ again. I’m never going to tell anyone I ever did one or wear that worthless t-shirt.”

This was my attitude upon arriving at West Chester. Everybody – myself included – seemed to be in it for themselves.

My epiphany came during the conference’s Question and Answer Panel. When six world-class athletes were asked about the support they’d received throughout their lives as diabetics, all but one regarded a specific family member who’d been either a diabetic or health care professional as a principle component of their successes. I took a moment to reflect upon my own family: brother, diabetic of 19 years; mother, RN; and father, physician.

It was clear that we all shared GUIDANCE as a common motivator on our individual paths to success. Thanks to those who’d taken the time to help us better understand our condition, we’d been blessed with opportunities to view diabetes as a challenge to pursue our dreams. Meanwhile, tens of millions of people throughout the world were still considering it a life sentence.

Immediately I went to work, sifting through the endless possibilities that lay ahead. I wasready to burst with visions of grandeur. As fate would have it, I found myself in perfect company at breakfast the following day: To my left sat Idaho’s very own Dave Nevins, a soft-spoken maverick of a cyclist, who said things like, “Come to Boise, we’ll throw you off a bridge.” To my right was a devious smile worn by Chris Jarvis, member of the Canadian Olympic Rowing Team.

We buttered our bagels, administered some insulin and began sharing our respective visions. Strangely, they all sounded alike. And thus Insulindependece was born…