Jeff Nesbit

American writer

Emperor gods have ruled the earth only one time before in modern history - during the time of Jesus. The rise of Christianity ended their reign as deities more than two centuries later, and none have appeared since. So is it possible for an emperor god to rise again? JUDE, from David C. Cook, explores that question: "A man rises to the pinnacle of earthly wealth, fame, and power by calling on demonic powers; his twin's opposing path brings him into direct conflict," the publisher says of the novel. JUDE can be purchased at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iTunes, Google Play, Christianbook and eChristian.

My novels in 2011 and 2012 —PEACE/Summerside Press and OIL/Guideposts—looked at what might happen if Israel decides to attack Iran's nuclear facilities. I've written 19 inspirational novels with Tyndale, Zondervan, Thomas Nelson, Guideposts, Summerside Press, David C. Cook, Hodder & Stoughton, Harold Shaw (part of Random House) and Victor Books. In addition, I write a regular science and technology blog for U.S. News & World Report called "At the Edge" for the magazine's News section, which is also available through TechMediaNetwork. I'm also the executive director of Climate Nexus, a non-profit strategic communications group and sponsored project of Rockefeller Philanthropy Advisors based in New York. 

I was former Vice President Dan Quayle's communications director at the White House; a senior public affairs official in the U.S. Senate and federal agencies such as the Food and Drug Administration; a national journalist with Knight-Ridder and others; head of a strategic communications consulting firm for 13 years; and the director of legislative and public affairs at the National Science Foundation from 2006-2011.

Ramona Tucker and I co-founded OakTara Publishers, an inspirational fiction publishing house, in 2006 to encourage new writers and bring out-of-print works from established authors back into the marketplace.  OakTara has published 300-plus titles since then, and now partners with Barbour Books and BroadStreet Publishing on selected titles sold to retail bookstores like Barnes & Noble and Books a Million and big-box retail stores such as Wal Mart and Sam's Club.



First, there was Barry Bonds. Then, there was Lance Armstrong. Now, there's Alex Rodriguez, Major League Baseball (MLB)'s highest-paid player. All three are cheaters — extraordinarily well-paid, and quite famous, cheaters.

Nearly every columnist who's ever written about drugs in professional sports tells roughly the same story over and over — a pro cheats, gets caught and then faces discipline. Rodriguez, for instance, is likely to be suspended, perhaps for the rest of the season. But he'll be back, and he still draws MLB's biggest salary.

There's a good reason that Lance Armstrong cheated. He won seven Tour de France titles, because blood doping is the difference between really, really good and world class. Bonds hit more home runs than anyone in baseball history. That's why he cheated. Rodriguez is famous and he has that enormous MLB paycheck. That's why he cheated.

That's the risk and reward calculation professional athletes go through — cheat and become world class, or stay clean and fight for the top of the podium like everyone else. When Armstrong finally admitted to blood doping, he actually said just that — he had to cheat to be competitive at the top of the sport. There's some truth there.

But there's another side to this story that almost never gets told. In long-distance running or cycling, there are athletes who chose not to blood dope to get an extra 5 percent or 10 percent boost in performance at the elite level. What have they felt for years as their governing bodies chose not to level the playing field? Cheated.

In 1989, when I worked at the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA), a cutting-edge drug called erythropoietin, or EPO, hit the market. EPO saves lives because it boosts red blood cells in the body, helping battle deadly diseases brought on by AIDS. As the FDA's public affairs chief, I helped write the first press release on its approval and generate the first stories about this new wonder drug.

At the same time, elite athletes in cycling and running learned that EPO (and drugs like it) could also help deliver oxygen to their muscles in races, illegally enhancing their performance by as much as 10 percent. In elite athletics, that 10 percent is the difference between really good and world champion, between the back of the pack in the Alps and winning the Tour de France. It's why drug cheating quickly became commonplace in sports in which the rewards vastly outweighed the risks.

However, one side to this story almost never gets told: the story of those athletes who didn't cheat, the ones who fought for the podium and stayed clean and lost, time and time again. Meanwhile, their governing bodies never did all they could to clean up the sports. It's the story of elite, world-class athletes such as my sister, Joan Nesbit Mabe, who made the 1996 Olympic track and field 10,000-meter team on sheer guts and training — and no performance-enhancing drugs.

Though it was believed that EPO was widely used in sports like cycling and long-distance running throughout the 1990s, there was, in fact, no way to directly test for it until about 2000.

Some have argued that it's theoretically possible to achieve the same results at an elite level without cheating, that there are legal techniques to achieve the extra 5 percent to 10 percent you get from cheating through blood doping and other assorted, illegal, performance-enhancing drugs and techniques. It's a nice thought, but a hopeless one for the majority of elite runners who don't have sponsors to pay for that sort of training. For many, cheating is an easier, less costly route.

In fact, cheating was easy for a very long time. Take EPO one month before a race, and then let the extra red blood cells sit there in your system — and they remain there for four months. The EPO has long since washed out of your system by race day, but the effects of EPO are still there. Combine that with other undetectable stuff, and a cheater who wins money, fame and world championship medals is born.

I once posed this hypothetical question to my sister: If she could have increased her times at her peak by as much as 10 percent, what might she have been able to accomplish? Where would she have finished in major championship races, including world championships and theOlympics?

My sister doesn't think that way and wouldn't give me an answer. She competed to the very best of her abilities — clean — and she's perfectly content with the path she chose.

So I'll answer for her, hypothetically, to make the point about cheating in sports a bit clearer.

I'm using 10 percent as an average advantage, because experts say you benefit anywhere from 5 percent to 15 percent from EPO and blood doping. That means nothing to a recreational runner. But to an elite athlete, for whom every second counts, it can mean a great deal.

My sister's outdoor best in the 10,000 meters (10K), the event she ran in the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta, was 32:04. Had she cheated and given herself that 10 percent edge with EPO-plus, her best in the 10K could conceivably have been under 30 minutes, putting her in the top-25 times ever and faster than the existing American record.

If she'd cheated, she might very well be an Olympic champion. Even a 5-percent edge would have made her competitive with the Olympic medal times that year (which were all above 31 minutes).

Would my sister have competed that well if she'd taken performance-enhancing drugs? Who knows? But was my sister cheated, along with others like her who competed clean? You bet. And until there's a level playing field in these sports, one in which no one benefits from drugs, fans should feel cheated as well.