THE GATEKEEPER

A SUBTLE UNEASE lingers at the National Shooting Championship in Steinkjer, Norway. The long-awaited summer sun hides behind the clouds as a new group of shooters steps into position, disengages their weapon safeties, and, on command, shatters the silence with thunderous volleys.

Amid the mingling scents of gunpowder and grilled sausages, a man moves inconspicuously. He navigates past kiosks and spectators, slipping through a shortcut behind the big screen. No one suspects that the man in the blue-checkered shirt and dark jeans carries a weighty responsibility—one that could alter lives overnight.

“The most critical moment is the summons,” says the doping control officer. “Anything can happen then, and we must act swiftly.”

MAGNE SLØRDAHL’S journey into anti-doping work was never part of a plan. At the time, he was the financial director for the Nordland Sports Federation when two positions suddenly became available in Bodø.

“I thought this might be something for me,” he says. “”I’ve always had a passion for sports and a strong sense of fairness. That’s why I decided to apply, and ever since, I’ve been working as a control officer.”

We’re sitting in a meeting room in the heart of Steinkjer, a few kilometers from the venue. We agreed to keep a low profile for as long as possible, arriving late to avoid drawing attention to the assignment.

For more than 31 years, starting in January 1994, Slørdahl has been on the road for Anti-Doping Norway, carrying out tests in settings ranging from humble training facilities in Trøndelag to the grand stages of World Championships in Holmenkollen and Florence.

“I’m a trained economist,” he explains.

“On a daily basis, I work as a portfolio manager for Trondheim Municipal Pension Fund, overseeing a substantial fund of 22 billion kroner. That’s my main job. But being a doping control officer is a side job for me—though it doesn’t make it any less important.”

“Sometimes, assignments happen during the day, in the middle of the week, and when that happens, I might take a vacation day from work to carry out a doping control.”

“What made you apply?”

He pauses, reflecting for a moment.

“It was probably the fairness aspect,” he replies. “Sports are about competing on equal terms, and I thought this was a way I could contribute.”

“Do you make money from this?”

Slørdahl smiles warmly and shifts in his chair.

“I earn more in my regular job. So, this isn’t what’s making me rich,” he says, patting his stomach with a chuckle.

TRONDHEIM, 1997. The World Ski Championships are underway, marking a new era in anti-doping efforts. For the first time, pre-testing of cross-country skiers—medical tests conducted before their races—is introduced.

“It was hectic,” Slørdahl recalls.

“There were no established routines; the guidelines were written as we went and revised every evening based on daily experiences. On top of that, there were the usual doping tests. It was simply a shift with an enormous workload.”

On the third day of the championships, the bombshell dropped. Lyubov Yegorova tested positive for bromantan, a banned stimulant. The Russian skier had just won the 5 km classic race and had come face-to-face with the doping control officers.

“I can’t recall which of us summoned Yegorova,” says Slørdahl. “But I clearly remember the procedure itself. It was my colleague and me on one side of the table, with Yegorova and her doctor on the other.”

“Not many words were exchanged. We carried out the procedure just as we did with everyone else. For us, on the control side, there was no way to detect anything unusual compared to the other Russian athletes.”

“What do you mean by that?”

He shrugs.

“Stone faces,” he says. “It was the same for all the Russian athletes who came in for testing. All communication went through the doctor. And it was no different with Yegorova.”

In retrospect, the television images became unforgettable. The freshly crowned world champion was stripped of her medal and sent home in disgrace. Before sunrise, the Russian skier was escorted out of the championship city and across the Swedish border, with alert cameras capturing the car’s departure.

“It was a mixed feeling,” Slørdahl explains.

“On one hand, it was sad to see Yegorova heading home in a miserable, old Lada. At the same time, it was confirmation that our controls were working. Yegorova’s doping case shook the skiing world, but it also demonstrated the necessity of our work—the importance of what we do.”

SLØRDAHL’S DAILY LIFE as a doping control officer is full of contrasts. After Johann Mühlegg was caught red-handed during the 2002 Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City, the Norwegian inspector was greeted with open arms during a surprise visit to the Swedish forests.

“We came to test the Swedish cross-country ski team at a training camp. They practically jumped on the table, cheering, relieved to be tested.”

“Why were they cheering?”

“They had been waiting for it—they wanted it. It gave the Swedes an opportunity to prove they were clean.”

Not everyone, however, is as pleased to see the inspectors. The job has evolved significantly over the past 30 years, shifting from traditional arena testing to unannounced home visits, where tensions can occasionally arise. For the officers, this evolution has made the work more demanding but also more effective.

“Sometimes, it’s clear you’re not welcome, that the red carpet isn’t exactly being rolled out for you,” he says.

“That can happen when we knock on the door late in the afternoon, and the athlete has just booked a babysitter to go to the movies with their partner. I understand the frustration. It feels more natural for us to show up at training sessions, matches, or competitions.”

“Why do you need to visit people at home?”

“Because it’s necessary,” he says firmly.

“For an entire year before the Salt Lake City Olympics, WADA sent control officers around the globe trying to track down Johann Mühlegg, who always seemed to have just left wherever they arrived. The introduction of the whereabouts rule has been, without a doubt, the most significant and positive development in anti-doping work. Today, we always know where athletes are and can go directly to collect the samples we need.”

TEN ATHLETES are set to be tested on this final day of the National Shooting Championship in Steinkjer, where a shooting king or queen will ultimately claim victory. Slørdahl’s colleagues from Anti-Doping Norway are already on site. Inside the small room behind the green door marked “Doping Control,” the workday won’t be complete until every urine sample is sealed and signed.

For now, Slørdahl moves through the crowd, scanning left and right to pinpoint the right shooters.

“Imagine a junior national championship in cross-country skiing, where the faces aren’t familiar to the doping control officers,” he explained earlier during a meeting.

“They all arrive at the finish line together in a mass start, and the only identification you have is their bib number. You have to act quickly to find the right person because they often remove their number right away. After the summons, you have much more control over what happens.”

Now, he quickens his pace, taps a man on the shoulder, and presents his ID to a startled shooter.

“WE’RE NOT EXPECTING to uncover anabolic steroids or blood doping here. In shooting, it’s typically stimulants used to control the psyche that are most relevant. And a few years ago, there were cases involving beta blockers to lower heart rates,” Slørdahl explains.

We’re sitting on a bench behind the green door, in a room that, at this moment, feels like the waiting area of a school dentist’s office.

“We’ll wait here until you’re ready to go to the bathroom and provide 90 milliliters of urine under the supervision of the doping control officer,” Slørdahl says to the athlete, who nods in acknowledgment.

Sometimes, the required amount is provided in two minutes. Other times, it takes hours—or even half the night.

“We wait until you’re done. Then we proceed to the control station, where you’ll divide the urine yourself into an A-sample and a B-sample and seal the bottles. It’s essential that only you, the athlete, are near the urine until the samples are sealed. After that, we go through the protocol together and sign it at the end. That’s basically the process,” he explains.

Another nod follows. Then, a nervous smile. No stone faces here, no doctors, and no waiting Lada outside. Just the uncomfortable feeling we all experience when we’re pulled over, roll down the window, and are asked to blow into a breathalyzer.

“We have to wait here until you’re ready to go to the bathroom and provide 90 milliliters of urine under the supervision of a doping control officer,” Slørdahl informs the athlete.

“IT’S IMPORTANT to be precise and accurate in everything we do, especially when the situation becomes challenging,” Slørdahl says as the day finally draws to a close.

Outside, the shooting range is quiet and deserted. The big screen sits dormant, and the area has been taken over by seagulls squabbling over the last scraps of grilled sausages. In the speakers, Lionel Richie is singing that it’s still going to last all night long.

“It’s about following the rules to the letter, being clear and consistent,” he continues. “It also helps if you can read the room and find the most sensible way to act. We’re not here to catch athletes; we’re here to make sports fairer.”

His final words hang in the warm evening air as we walk toward the parking lot. In his bag are the sealed A- and B-samples from ten Norwegian shooters. There could be fireworks in them, too.

“Does it always go this smoothly?”

Slørdahl gently shakes his head.

“No, it doesn’t,” he says. “We always debrief after finishing the controls. If everything has gone smoothly, the briefing is relatively quick. But if something unexpected has happened or there’s been a deviation, we need to go through it thoroughly. In those cases, the debriefing can take a while. The point is to learn from it.”

“What can go wrong?”

“Anything,” he replies without hesitation.

“We can lose track of athletes or fail to summon the ones we planned to test—either because the situation is chaotic or the athlete simply disappears. Procedural errors can also occur, where we as control officers make a mistake. But I never approach a doping control fearing I’ll make an error. I’ve done this so many times now.”

THE CAR SITS ALONE in the expansive gravel parking lot. Earlier today, Slørdahl’s unassuming Golf had been carefully squeezed between two oversized motorhomes, as if it were claiming the very last patch of available space in all of Steinkjer.

Now, we ease onto a deserted E6. Slørdahl drives, the photographer sits beside him, and I’m in the back seat. We glide into the summer night, with Trondheimsfjorden blazing like a sea of fire on our right and the crimson sky stretching endlessly overhead.

It’s been a long day, teetering on the edge of night. Tomorrow, Slørdahl will return to his desk, managing portfolios for the municipal pension fund. I ask if it’s worth it—the side job, the extra hours, the modest paycheck. He answers with his hands steady on the wheel and a brief glance in the rearview mirror.

“To put it this way: The demands on doping control officers are getting stricter and stricter. And when expectations rise that high, perhaps the compensation needs to follow. 

“Do you think passion alone isn’t enough anymore?”

The engine pulls us toward the city. The high beams search as far as they can.

“I’ve been doing this for over 30 years. But looking forward, I don’t believe the principle of fairness or a heartfelt cause will be enough to meet the demand.”

It’s a warning, a signal. A dark cloud on the horizon, reminding us that reality is rarely as luminous as Trondheimsfjorden on a July night in 2024.

“THE FIRST THING you lose as a doping control officer is any illusions,” says the driver, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.

“Clapping your hands and declaring, ‘That’s it, we’re done, doping in sports is over’—I don’t believe in that. We need an effective control system. So, there’s plenty of work left for many years to come.”

We pass Verdal, Levanger, Ronglan, and Stjørdal. Beyond Trondheim, another World Championship awaits at the Granåsen Ski Arena. Magne Slørdahl is ready for a long, cold shift.

“It’ll be good,” the Trøndelag native smiles. “Let’s hope for clear skies, a big crowd, and no positive tests.”

“Do you really believe that?”

His gaze stays fixed on the road, the headlights slicing through the darkness ahead.

“Let’s hope to steer clear of a case like Jegorova’s in 1997. But you never know. And, to be honest, there’s a certain sense of satisfaction when someone is caught—it’s proof that our work is making an impact.” ◉