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Sweaty Coverage of the Sauna World Championship

By Ashley Burke

Zooming the video camera lens, the sight of four flabby, nearly naked men and one scrawny guy forces me to zoom out—way out. Crammed into the world’s teeniest Speedos, these unsightly middle-aged males are about to become scorching hot.

Standing on a mid-size stage in Heinola, Finland, a tiny town housing a mere 20,000 Finns, the steamiest sauna on earth awaits them. This group will brave 110°C, to see who can sweat it out the longest at the 8th annual Sauna World Championship. As a summer news reporter for a local TV-channel, I was lured-in to cover the event after hearing “Heinola is hot!” Little did I know, this wasn’t an understatement.

Although saunas are scattered everywhere in Finland—there is one sauna for every two Finns—this sweat-a-thon started over 12 years ago, when a group of pro-perspiring men transformed the local swimming pool sauna into their event grounds. They would battle to see who could endure the most heat and eventually word got out. Sauna-lovers from around the nation started piling into the local pool’s hotbox, and as time went on, internationals from neighbouring countries decided to give it a go. In 1999, the perspiration showdown became an official world championship.

Once this year’s event begins, a half a liter of water will splash down on “the terminator,” a mighty 18-kilowatt kiuas (Finnish for stove) at 30-second intervals, sending the temperature soaring and the competitors gasping for air. But if they stand-up, slouch too low, or try and disturb each other, their chances of taking home the title as the Sauna World Champion will become just another sweaty dream.

“Kilpailijat valmistautuvat karsintakierrokseen,” yells the announcer over the speakers. A Finnish reporter beside me translates, “Let the preliminary round begin!” A crowd of over 3,000 gets a better view of the two hexagonal wooden saunas. But it’s nearly impossible to see inside the small fogged up window. Instead, viewers will have to turn to a JumboTron screen beside the stage that will amplify every bead of sweat into gigantic proportions.

As the first heat of contestants starts marching confidently one-by-one into the pre-heated sauna, the crowd is cheering and blowing horns. Oddly enough, nearly everyone is waving a miniature Japanese flag.

Since the Nippon Network, a national Japanese TV-company, produced a documentary unveiling the 2004 Sauna World Championships to over 40 million viewers, it has become tradition for at least one Japanese participant to take-part in the event every August. But this year, Japan’s pick, Kazumi Morohoshi, had the Finns chanting his name from sweaty start to sweaty finish. It wasn’t a result of his miniature 110-pound stature, nor the fact that he was a former singer from a famous boy band Hikaru Genji; everyone was rooting for Morohoshi because… he was a sauna virgin.

The second the newcomer stepped foot into the sauna, he was a minor celeb. It was like Pamela Anderson was visiting Finland again and I was the paparazzi. Frantically unlocking the hefty camera from the tripod, I dash backstage. As I flash my press card, and head to the sauna, a pushing-and-shoving battle ignites. There is one hazy window about the size of a 30-inch TV screen available for over 20 videographers to film through. Morohoshi’s entourage has four cameras documenting his every inhalation and the others are from major national news networks. As the only girl, with a towering height just over five feet, I was getting some unbelievable shots—of lower backs, cameraman asses, and slivers of the wooden sauna.

It has been two minutes, the first heat of sauna champion hopefuls are still inside profusely sweating, and I’m starting to break into a nervous sweat myself. I need to capture at least two minutes of this round and who knows how much longer little Morohoshi is going to last. While inside, his heart rate will rise up to 75%, sending his blood pumping twice as fast through his body. If he stays inside too long, he’ll be waiting it out inside the hospital instead of Heinola’s sauna. Extreme dehydration, first and second-degree burns and heatstroke are just a few side effects of this painful sweat-off. Without proper weekly training both in and out of the sauna, most can’t make it past the three-minute mark.

Finally, one of Nippon’s crewmembers leaves his coveted window; I duck down, bear hug the camera, and go for it. Like a pinball machine, my crouching body was being bounced around a forest full of looming legs. Shot off someone’s furious knee, landing on top of a set of feet, and finally crawling towards an inch of wood off in the distance, I pop up in front of the window. Successful, but overwhelmed from the stench of musky feet, the media scrum was worse than a group of angry pubescent teenagers moshing at an Audioslave concert.

As I push the camera up against the sauna’s window, focus the image, and zoom in, I can see all six of the contestants sitting with their elbows on their knees in perfect form. They’re not allowed to move or else they’ll be disqualified, so their faces are making up for it by contorting into unusual expressions. Morohoshi’s petite nose is scrunched up and his eyes are shut, while Ari-Pekka Paavola, a hefty Finn, is making grunting noises with his head swung back. Rick Ellis, an American contestant, looks like he’s about to cry.

Suddenly, Yuru Bashko, a competitor from Belarus, lets his arm slide off his slippery wet thigh. His body quickly slumps a level lower. The judges immediately turn to each other and simultaneously nod their heads. “Esteellinen,” screams a judge in a stern voice. The word echoes over the PA system, translated as, “Disqualified…disqualified… disqualified.”

It’s not surprising Bashko was just eliminated; Finns take the event as serious as they do church. During ancient times, Sauna’s were seen as a sacred domain. It was common for life to begin and end inside this humid space. It’s also the reason why the word löyly—Finnish for life or spirit—has been attached to saunas for centuries and is even plastered across this year’s championship signs.

Half a minute later, a competitor from Estonia starts gasping for air; it’s been 2-minutes and 22 seconds. As the Estonian stands up, the judges swing open the doors, like a rock star, he emerges from a thick cloud of fog onto the stage. The crowd cheers for a moment as he raises his arms in victory, but as soon as the he turns his back and starts jaunting away, a low “MOR-OH-OSHI…MOR-OH-OSHI…MOR-OH-OSHI” chant starts building up in the audience, until the entire stadium is belting out the tiny beginners name.

Finally, after an impressive five minutes and 41 seconds, a faint Morohoshi stumbles out of the blistering wooden box. During the first sauna in his life, he endured over 110°C of blazing heat for nearly twice as long as some well-trained Finns. The five-time champion himself, Timo Kaukonen, usually only lasts around 13 minutes. After waving enthusiastically at the crowd and taking a little bow, Morohoshi wobbled backstage, proud, triumphant, and with the same cheek-to-cheek smile locked across his face when this whole madness began.

As two men remain firmly planted to the sticky sauna bench, I’ve got to wonder why people would voluntarily fly here for a weekend of self-inflicted pain. This year alone, there are 83 competitors from 15 different countries including China, U.S.A, Germany, and the United Kingdom. It could be for the unexpected prize—a sauna heater.

Now this isn’t the only unconventional Finnish World Championship reining in a summer crowd. Every quirky activity, from wife-carrying and air guitar, to mobile-cell phone throwing and mosquito catching, is promoted as a World Championship, often with the world “unofficial” sketched below it in size 4 fonts.

But unlike the other wacky world events drowning in costumes and alcohol induced “athletes,” the Sauna World Championship is intense. Alcohol and drugs are strictly forbidden and vigorous training is required to qualify for the final round. Competitors will loose about the same amount of sweat, as they would during a 10 km run. And I can tell by Rick Ellis’ squirming face, that it’s a mental battle to stay inside and bear the sweltering heat.

About to explode, Ellis’ head is now fire-red and it looks like he has just started sucking a sour candy. His face is scrunched up with his eyes shut tightly and lips pursed inward. As his chest slowly inflated with air, Ellis suddenly lets out a deep sigh of relief as he catches a glimpse of his sweaty Finnish opponent dashing for the wooden doors. Bursting up, Ellis follows in his footsteps, entering out into the steam-less, cool stage after eight minutes.

As the scrum of news reporters slowly disperses from the empty sauna, I follow a trail of Ellis’ sweat backstage in hopes of getting an interview. When I ask him if he’s interested, he say “Sure, why not,” and we head to a grassy spot away from the backstage chaos.

Ellis’ body is covered in red splotchy patches. He doesn’t know it yet, but he has endured first-degree burns under his armpits and across his neck, legs, and face. I can’t help but notice he’s continuously licking his top lip as I’m setting up the camera. Turning to me he asks, “Is there something wrong with my mouth? It really hurts.” As I look closer, I can see that Ellis’ top lip has not only turned white and blistered, but is burnt to such a crisp the skin has split open.

Since Finns believe that fire is a gift from heaven and its steam can cure nearly anything from joint pain to depression, and even sexual dysfunction, it is bizarre to see that Ellis is hurt so badly. Maybe that whole relieving phenomenon doesn’t work on Americans.

“Look at me, this has never happened before,” he says. “I sauna once a week at home. But I made the mistake of training in a dry sauna rather than steam. I’m not use to this type of heat.”

As Ellis goes on revealing his training-regime, all I really to know is why he traveled eight hours on a plane for this event.

“It was an excuse to go on a vacation,” he says shrugging his shoulders. “This competition was the only way my wife was going to let me go away.”

So you’re staying here in Heinola for a while then?

“No,” he says raising his right eyebrow. “No offence or anything, but there are a lot better places in the world I’d rather see,” he tells the camera. “I’ll be going to the United Kingdom for the vacation part.”

This remark makes me glad he burnt his top lip, and we wrap up the interview. Although Ellis made it on to the semi-finals, he only lasted four minutes - that’s half of his preliminary round time, sending him packing for his “holiday” earlier than expected.

Hours later, the judges flick off the sauna’s lights, the first day of men and women’s preliminary/semi-final rounds has drawn to an end. Although it was an excuse for Ellis to travel and a fun-filled wacky event the audience, for Finns, the sticky day is about more than taking home a sauna heater. It’s about proving you have sisu—Finnish for guts. This tough sisu-attitude is one of the most highly admired traits among Finns. It reveals a person’s ultimate strength. And everyone who participated in the world’s most skin-scorching event proved just that.

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