THE CONFESSION

The rhythmic sound of running shoes on asphalt breaks the silence around Holmenkollen Park Hotel, perched high above the capital. Around the bend and up the hill comes a Norwegian skiing queen, pushing a stroller in front of her.

“It was incredibly difficult to decide whether to make a comeback in Trondheim or not,” she says effortlessly as she reaches the top.

“If you’d asked me in May, the answer would have been yes. By June, it would have been a big, bold no.”

“Why have you been so undecided for so long?”

She shrugs lightly.

“Some days, I was just tired and felt guilty about work and family. Other days, I felt really motivated and got good test results. But for a long time, I had so many questions running through my mind. Am I training enough? Do I have the energy? How is my form?”

“With nine out of nine individual gold medals at the last championships, it’s not worth showing up in subpar shape and finishing tenth. I want to fight for gold in that 50k at the World Championships.”

MORE THAN TWO YEARS have passed since Therese Johaug announced to the world that she was retiring after earning 14 World Championship golds and four Olympic golds on the ski trails. Three times, the express from Dalsbygda has won the overall World Cup. Four times, she has been first to climb the final hill of the Tour de Ski. Yet, her greatest gold now lies in the stroller she parks behind the treadmill at the gym.

“What’s a typical day like now?”

Therese retrieves some toys and smiles.

“There’s no such thing as a typical day anymore,” she laughs.

The petite, powerful frame springs onto the treadmill, and starts the perpetual hamster wheel.

“Kristin might wake up at five or half past six. Then it’s time to make breakfast, change diapers, pack bags, and get everything in the car. After training, there are meetings and tasks to attend to. We eat and play a bit. Then Nils Jakob takes over while I head out for another session. Then Kristin goes to bed—it’s porridge and toys everywhere, a bombed-out daycare, you could say. And then it’s a little work before bedtime again.”

“What was it like to become a mom?”

Her blonde ponytail bounces behind her.

“It’s the most fantastic thing I’ve ever experienced,” Therese says. “Of course, everything has changed. The days aren’t tailored for me anymore. Kristin is number one, and I’m number two. She’s the top priority in everything we do. It can be tiring, but it’s also a bit nice that everything isn’t about me anymore.”

OCTOBER 4, 2016. A silent mobile phone sits glowing on a windowsill in downtown Oslo, repeatedly lighting up to catch its owner’s attention.

“I remember it like yesterday,” Therese says.

“It was Cinnamon Bun Day. I had been out training, an interval session on roller skis. Nils Jakob and I had spent much of that summer apart. Now, we finally had a few days together in Oslo. It was raining, and we thought it would be a great day to bake.”

Therese writes a shopping list. Nils Jakob heads to the store.

“Then it hits me: ‘Ah, we need cardamom!’ I pick up my phone to call Nils Jakob, and that’s when I see all the notifications. ‘Oh my God! Something’s happened.’

On the screen, there are dozens of missed calls and messages. Vidar Løfshus, the sports director of the Ski Federation, has tried to reach me several times. His message is brief: ‘Call me as soon as you can.’

I’m thinking, ‘What? What now?’ There’s also an email from Anti-Doping Norway, and I notice it’s password-protected, which seems odd. But when I enter the password, the words are suddenly right there in black and white: ‘You have tested positive for doping.’

Therese takes a deep breath. The painful feeling is still lodged high in her chest.
“I stumble out into the hallway, feeling the floor disappear beneath me. ‘But I haven’t done anything wrong, I haven’t done anything wrong!’ Desperately, I check the personal identification number, clinging to the hope that there’s been a mistake, that the email was meant for another athlete.

But it’s my birthdate, my ID number. This is really me,” she admits.

Then comes the scream.

Nils Jakob is in the stairwell. He hears the uncontrollable cry, at first thinking it’s coming from another apartment in the building. But with each step, he gets closer to the truth. The sobbing is coming from his own apartment, his own girlfriend.

“He picked me up, gave me a tight hug, and said, ‘Take a deep breath, Therese! We’ll figure this out. Where’s the receipt from the test? Where’s the list of all the medications you’ve used?’ And I keep track of everything—I record absolutely everything. So I find it immediately, in the cupboard above the stove.”

Johaug’s partner is a doctor. Nils Jakob Hoff quickly retrieves the correct tube from Therese’s toiletry bag—the ointment she had been prescribed for a sore lip during a training camp in Livigno, by none other than the national team doctor, Fredrik S. Bendiksen.

NINE DAYS LATER, the Norwegian Ski Federation holds a press conference where the team doctor is set to drown in Johaug’s tears.

“I take full responsibility for Therese ingesting the banned substance clostebol through the cream Trofodermin,” Bendiksen admits, deeply distressed over the situation he has placed Johaug in.

Therese cries from start to finish.

“I’m absolutely crushed, unbelievably devastated. And I’m furious,” Johaug begins amidst a barrage of camera flashes that will follow her for months to come.

She gasps for air, sobbing through her speech.

“It’s been an enormous burden to keep this to myself for a week now. There are no words to describe how horrible it’s been. I want to tell everyone what happened, stand tall, and share everything. Because I am not at fault in this case.”

“IT WASN’T EASY,” explains Therese in hindsight. Her training session at Holmenkollen Park is finally over.

“If you searched for Trofodermin, you found nothing. Products aren’t listed on WADA’s list. In this case, we would have had to specifically search for each active ingredient. So I believed I hadn’t done anything wrong. I had a sunburned lip, received an ointment from my doctor, and asked if it was on the doping list. He clearly and unequivocally said, ‘No.’ I chose to trust him.”

“But I later realized that you can’t do that,” she continues.

“You shouldn’t trust others, and you shouldn’t accept medications without verifying them yourself. That became increasingly clear to me—it’s the athlete’s responsibility to know what you put in your body. It was a lesson for me, but I think it also shocked others on the team. At first, some took it lightly, thinking it would sort itself out. But I remember a skilled lawyer in the Ski Federation told me, ‘This is actually very serious, Therese. And it’s solely your responsibility.’”

“How did that feel?”

“It was brutal,” she says.

“I grew up on a farm with parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents who taught me that hard work pays off. I was never a child prodigy, but I put in tens of thousands of training hours to become good at skiing, to find those tiny margins. Doping never crossed my mind. But now, suddenly, I was labeled a doper. So yes, it was brutal.”

“What reactions did you get after that first press conference?”

“I felt that most people believed me. Everyone on the team, my sponsors, and the Norwegian public gave me a lot of support. Of course, I also received some negative messages. As Norwegians, we’re good at judging foreign athletes caught doping. So I guess I’ve learned from this case.”

“What did you learn?”

“You should never judge anyone until you’ve thoroughly understood their case. I’m not the only one who’s been unlucky.”

“Did you ever fear falling into such a situation?”

“We talked about it on the team from time to time. ‘Imagine if someone put something in our drinking belts.’ We were very cautious and never left the belts unattended. Someone could sabotage them. It’s a top athlete’s worst nightmare—to be caught for something you’re innocent of.”

TEN MONTHS AFTER the tearful press conference in Oslo, Johaug finally receives her verdict. In a press release, the Court of Arbitration for Sport (CAS) announces that the Norwegian ski star has been sentenced to 18 months of ineligibility. Johaug will not compete at the Winter Olympics in Pyeongchang.

“First of all, I want to say I am devastated. I’ve trained incredibly hard to succeed at the Olympics. This is very tough. I cannot understand the punishment I’ve received. I feel I’ve been treated unfairly,” says a dejected Johaug during a press meeting in Seiser Alm.

“The hardest part was how long it took to receive the verdict. During that entire period, I trained every day to be ready to compete again, to win the first race, the first World Cup, and the first championship gold.”

“But when I got the verdict, it knocked the wind out of me. I completely lost my joy for the sport. Everything became a chore. Training, which had always been what I loved most in life, felt like a burden. For three or four weeks, I didn’t put on training clothes at all.”

“Did you ever consider quitting?”

“Yes, I did,” she admits.

“At one point, I thought, ‘I can’t do this anymore. It’s not worth it. Why should I keep doing this?’ But at the same time, there was something inside me saying, ‘Damn it, this won’t break me. I’ll come back stronger. I’ll show everyone what I stand for—that it was never about cheating.’”

FOR TWO LONG YEARS, while the rest of the world is competing for medals, Therese Johaug dedicates herself to intense training at her cabin in Sjusjøen. Three to four hours of endurance sessions in the morning. Two hours in the afternoon.

“The upside was that I trained a lot. I built a massive foundation for the coming years in my career.”

Back home in Holmenkollen, she received thumbs up from honking cars and passing hikers. On the lonely plateaus around Lillehammer, she was cheered on by the mountains and snowdrifts.

“I owe it all to Norway for helping me come back after the suspension,” says Therese.

“I received so many messages, cards and letters, flowers, and gifts that I never doubted it. People wanted me back—they believed my story. And that was the most important thing to me. It’s easier to climb hills on roller skis when smiling people roll down their windows and yell, ‘Go, Therese! We’re cheering for you!’”

“Winning that individual Olympic gold meant so much. It’s the greatest achievement for any athlete. It tasted truly sweet,” she says today.

ON FEBRUARY 5, 2022, four and a half years after her doping verdict from CAS, Therese Johaug crushes the competition and wins her first individual Olympic gold in the 15-kilometer skiathlon in Beijing.

Tears flow again, this time from joy.

“It’s just incredible! An Olympic gold has been a dream since I was a little girl. I’ve put in tens of thousands of training hours for this, and I must admit, there are a lot of thoughts running through my head right now,” says the 33-year-old, her emotions partially hidden behind a face mask.

The grand celebration will last for two weeks. And the thin, sensitive skin around her eyes will face more salty tears when, on the morning of March 4, she tells her 472,000 Instagram followers that she is retiring as a skier.

“Winning the individual Olympic gold meant the world to me. It’s the greatest achievement an athlete can aspire to, and it was the one thing missing from my list. It truly felt incredible,” she says today.

We wrap up the first part of the interview. Kristin needs to eat, and so does Therese. Number one and number two. She picks up her phone, which has received more messages and calls in the last half hour than most people get in a week. But that’s normal now. In recent years, Johaug has become a wife, a mom, a brand name, a cosmetics line, and a fitness app. That requires a team, and now they’re appearing on her screen. Numbers three through a hundred.

Her thumb flies over the touchscreen like a mini version of herself. Some things can wait, but others need immediate attention. Two text messages and one phone call.

“How do you manage?” I ask.

“Manage what?” she counters.

“Everything. Especially going back to skiing, with doping tests and the whereabouts rule?”

“That was never part of the consideration,” she replies quickly. “I have been under a reporting obligation since I retired. Every day, I have reported my whereabouts, and I have been regularly tested, even during my pregnancy.”

“You never removed yourself from the list?”

“No, too much of my identity was tied to skiing. I wanted to keep the option open to compete again. If I had withdrawn, I couldn’t spontaneously show up for a Norwegian Championship or FIS race—I’d have to wait six months. And it doesn’t cost me anything to be on the list or to be tested. I think it’s a good thing.”

A FEW HOURS LATER, we meet again in the parking lot below Holmenkollen. Therese retrieves her helmet, poles, and roller skis from the car. It’s here, on the winding roads up to the iconic ski jump and stadium, with scars from broken poles and falls, that her foundation is being built now. Honks and waves! Her supporters are out in force today.

But in Nordmarka, there are trolls too.

“Oh sure, I’ve received my share of negative comments,” says Therese, strapping on her skis.

“They mostly come from other countries. ‘Finally, we’ve got proof. That’s how you people operate up in the Nordics.’ But there’s nothing I can do about that. I know damn well what I’ve done and what I stand for. I know how hard-working I am, that it was a mistake, that I never tried to cheat. I was believed both in court here in Norway and at CAS. So people can think and believe whatever they want.”

“Doesn’t it exhaust you?”

She grips her poles and checks her watch.

“No, I actually feel I’ve become tougher,” she says. “You can’t nudge me or knock me over. I’ve endured a long winter night, so to speak. I stand firm and confident in myself. That’s why the comments just roll off me.”

On the way up to the stadium, I strike what might be the sorest point. Therese Johaug has been caught doping, testing positive for an anabolic substance. She will never escape it, no matter how fast she runs up the hills.

“Yes, I am doping-convicted,” she answers calmly.

“But it was a mistake. I served my penalty and was out for two seasons. And there’s a big difference between cheating deliberately and getting caught in a case involving a lip cream that could never enhance performance. At the same time, the case has matured in me as well.”

“How so?” I ask.

She glances up at the ski jump, where everyone takes off, but not everyone flies down to a telemark landing and perfect style points. Some crash, too.

“I used to say I had no responsibility. I don’t say that anymore. As an athlete, it’s your sole responsibility to know what you put in your body. And it’s been eight years now. I fear people might forget or become complacent. Just think of the dentist. If they give you an injection, you should know what it contains and whether it’s on the list. You need to check the drug registry every time you get something in your body.”

“How paranoid have you become?”

Therese smiles and tilts her head.

“I know Paracetamol isn’t on the doping list, but I still check it every time. Mostly to maintain a good routine. So check everything, every time. That’s my best advice to others too.”

WHEN HER SECOND SESSION is over, she takes her skis and poles under her arm and heads back to the parking lot. A black Tesla stops at the crosswalk. Like many others on this cloudy summer day, the driver recognizes the blonde ponytail and strong frame. He leans out of the window. “Keep it up, Therese!”

“Does it have to be the athlete’s responsibility?”

“Yes, it has to be,” Johaug answers quickly after eight years of reflection. “We can’t fight doping if a cheater can just blame the doctor, throw up their hands, and say, ‘I didn’t know.’ That’s why it must be the way it is. And that’s why we bear a great responsibility.”

“Do you still have contact with Bendiksen?”

“Fredrik and I have a good relationship.”

“What do you think about his responsibility in the case?”

“I don’t put any blame on Fredrik at all. People make mistakes. We were both at fault. He never tried to protect himself. He’s an honest and decent guy who supported me all the way. And worse mistakes happen in the world than this. People lose their lives—I live.”

She removes her helmet, as if to emphasize that she no longer needs that extra protection from jabs and blows.

“I feel my story becomes smaller and smaller with each passing year. I had four fantastic years after my comeback. I’ve become a mom; we’re a family. I’ve grown as a person, more confident and mentally stronger. So,  something good came out of it, even though it was brutal and awful at the time.”

Therese opens the car door, sits behind the wheel, and checks her ever-active phone. It’s calling for meetings and meals once again.

“I think it’s important to tell my story to warn younger athletes,” she says.

“Eight years is a long time. More and more people don’t know or remember. And I don’t want anyone to end up in the same situation I did.”

“Everyone must check everything?” I ask.

Her response is as steady and rhythmic as the running shoes that greeted us this morning.

“Everyone must check everything, every single time,” says Therese Johaug. ◉