Norseman 2025 — The Holy Grail. And what happens when the gate closes 200 metres from your dream.

Norseman has earned its title as the most famous race in the extreme triathlon circuit. It's part of the original triad — Norseman / Celtman / Swissman — has the strictest rules of any race in the circuit, and hosts the xTri World Championship.

Since I first heard of it, entry has been by lottery. I found out about the race in 2013, entered the lottery for the first time in 2016, and tried every year after that. My plan was to keep trying for at least 10 years. Fortunately, in 2024 — using accumulated xTri points for the first time — I got the famous email: You're in! Before that, eight years in a row, I'd received the equally famous reply: We're sorry.

The maths of it: 250 athletes total. 50 slots go to the organizers and World Championship — sponsors' guests, podium finishers from other races, and athletes selected by local lotteries. That leaves 200. Half are Norwegian — it's their race. So 100 international slots. Then roughly 50 women, Norwegian or not, eat into another 10–20 international spots. You're left with maybe 70–80 international places.

There were around 7,000 applicants for those 70 spots. Your chances: basically zero. 😊

Every year you enter and aren't selected, you accumulate an extra slot for the following year. I had 8 slots last year. So on my 9th attempt out of the planned 10, I finally made it into the most famous race in this madness called xTri — long-distance triathlon in extreme conditions. Extreme because nature and weather have the final say: whether the race happens at all, whether you can finish it under normal conditions, or whether you can survive to the end at 0°C on a mountain, in wind and rain. Cold and hypothermia have always been the top reasons for DNF in the circuit.

Since 2017, I've faced every kind of weather xTri can throw at you. At Icon: frozen at 7am on a mountain descent, 2°C and relentless rain. At Celtman: swimming at 5am in 9°C water. Also at Icon: climbing the Stelvio in 40°C heat, brutal sun, severe dehydration. At Bearman: running through mountain forest at 1am in total darkness, completely blind. And now, at Norseman: cold water, and what should have been the final 4km climb to Gaustatoppen at 4–5°C.

The Norseman organizers have two mottos. The first: "This is not for you" — meaning, don't get your hopes up about finishing. The second: "When we say jump, you jump" — referring to the famous early-morning leap off the ferry before the swim leg begins.

Preparation

My physical preparation went as planned — by the book, sorting out every physical issue along the way (the trickiest being my right knee, after a severe tendinitis picked up in autumn). Flabio designed my training plan again. I trust him completely and I'm grateful for everything he's done for me.

What I did differently this time: physiotherapy, hyperbaric chamber, ice baths at 2°C, and IV infusions of antioxidants, NAD, glutathione, B-vitamins. By race week, I was in the best shape of my life. Ready for anything.

Every xTri requires a support crew. Mine was Alina, Adi, and Carmen — experienced, all of them. Alina has been through it all with me. Adi and Carmen had also done Bearman and other races.

Norway at its best

The natural setting of Norseman is extraordinary. We flew to Bergen on Thursday afternoon, rented a car (we could probably have bought one for what we paid — around €1,000 for 4 days), and drove to Eidfjord. Typical Nordic accommodation. Nothing spectacular except the landscapes.

On Friday we woke up for the Social Swim — where I was the only person who swam 800 metres without a wetsuit. I came out shivering, but mentally loaded. What do you see, my jaw didn't freeze (a haunting memory from Celtman, the source of many nightmares and sleepless nights after that race).

The atmosphere in little Eidfjord was extraordinary. All the athletes and their crews were wandering around and I had the feeling we were part of something important. After registration, I did a 1-hour pre-race session — 20 min swim / 20 min bike / 20 min run — then the mandatory technical briefing, where the rules and penalties were hammered home once more. They weren't joking. Told us to re-read the 30-page race manual. We then drove to our accommodation in Ulvik, 30 minutes away.

Pro tip: you have roughly a 50% chance of not starting the race, or being disqualified, if you don't read the rules and your logistics aren't perfect.

Race Day — August 2, 2025

The fun started early. Wake-up at 1:30am. I go to the bathroom and notice something's wrong with my right eye. Looking in the mirror: conjunctivitis. I'd been through something similar before — Zoster Zone at Ironman Nice in 2015, one week before the race. I ignored it then. Easy decision now. Nothing wrong. Fortunately, Alina — I have no idea how — had some eye drops in her bag. Providence. I applied it and moved on.

I always struggle at the start. Maximum emotional load, pitch darkness, and the eternal question: What the hell am I doing here at 3am? Why can't I be a normal triathlete, with a 7am start and warm water?

Alina, Adi and Carmen stayed with me until I boarded the ferry. It left at exactly 4am, heading to the start point in the fjord. We would swim all the way back.

The swim — 4.8km instead of 3.8km

A 20-minute fog bank pushed the ferry several hundred metres further out into the fjord. The kayaks that were supposed to guide us to T1 moved with it. So instead of swimming 200m to the start line, then 3.8km to the shore, we swam 600m just to reach the start — and then the full race distance. 4.8km total instead of 3.8km. In cold water, with visible currents. If I didn't look up every 3–4 strokes, I immediately veered left, straight to the middle of the fjord.

The jump off the ferry is famous — a 3–4 metre drop. During the crossing, most athletes were quiet, absorbed in the moment. A few were vocal, especially the South Americans and Italians. Announcements over the megaphone: "25 minutes to jump" and then: "Spray on deck will start in 2 minutes." That meant hoses of cold water from the upper deck, soaking us before the jump to reduce thermal shock. An interesting ritual I could say. I genuinely felt like we were being prepared for sacrifice. If there'd been a door to sneak out of, I'd have considered it.

At 4:40am, they hesitated to send us in. The fog was total. No shoreline, no kayaks, no lights. You could swim in completely the wrong direction and no one would notice. It lasted a few minutes, then the first splashes. I didn't hesitate. I jumped. I knew I had to reach the start line near shore before the cutoff.

I felt like swimming a lot, and still wasn't getting there. They'd said 200m from the ferry to the start — I'd been swimming seriously for over 10 minutes. They eventually delayed the start by 5 minutes, and some athletes still didn't make it in time. They swam the full distance anyway.

The swim didn't go so well. 4.23km in 1h30min. Not a great time, not a great experience. But I reached the shore without being frozen or completely depleted. I was satisfied. I knew the day was only just beginning. I've never been a fan of swimming. I have to admit though — the underwater photos are incredible.

The bike — 7.5 hours and the wind that decided everything

I came out of the water around position 200. Damn...

Transition was fine. I set off knowing I had a strong bike and could recover. The maths didn't work out that way. The first climb — 27km with 1,200m of elevation — punished me. 250 support cars on the same road made it nearly impossible for Alina and Adi to reach me. We had a few arguments on the course, my fault entirely. I was too stressed and nothing was adding up. I apologized many times and still feel it wasn't enough for everything they did for me.

After the big climb, I hit the plateau — over 100km of it. At one point I went about an hour without seeing them; I'd run out of gels, bars, water. I missed them badly. The temperature had dropped but there was no rain — the good news. The bad news: the wind. Lucky I was on a TT bike; the road cyclists suffered far more than I did. Because of the wind, I decided not to push. That turned out to be the best decision of the day.

On the last descent — around 40km — I pushed a little, but the rain started and I rode carefully. A crash at 50km/h would have ended my already fragile dream of being in the top 160 at the Gaustatoppen gate. Using a power meter for the first time in a race helped me stay disciplined. Creeping up to 300 watts — pull back to 200.

Long bike. 7.5 hours. Average 25km/h. Every time I spotted my car — I recognised it by race number 177 sticker on the back — it made me happy.

T2 — the moment everything clicked

Alina and Adi were there. I looked at Alina. She said it wasn't looking great, but let's see. I was around position 176. Goodbye for now, top 160.

The athletes who'd arrived with me looked fresh. The one in front of me was already pulling away. Again... Why can't I catch a break today?

Then something clicked. I couldn't accept it.

Pain is now. Failure is forever.

The white finisher's jersey would have stayed in the back of a drawer forever, alongside the feeling of failure. I thought of all the mornings I'd woken at 5am for training, of every sacrifice made to hold together a family, a job, and this obsession. Of Alina telling me a thousand times: you can do it. Of Flabio: "Let your legs go."

I'm telling this slowly, but it all happened at the speed of light inside my head. Within 30 seconds, I was running at 4:30/km pace. First kilometre — first overtake. I was on 175. More appeared in my field of vision.

The run — the best of my life

I was in the red zone. After 12 hours of effort, I was running on mind alone. The body wasn't keeping up. I felt like it`s suffocating, like every step was the last one. I had around 25km to run before Zombie Hill — a 10%+ gradient that mortals like me can't run, but can march up at a pace that keeps you in contention.

My chance was to run the best race of my life on those 25 relatively flat kilometres. And I did. At every stop with Alina and Adi: 2 salt tablets (horse-sized doses), isotonic drink, gels, electrolytes.

A few kilometres in, I passed the guy who'd been pulling away from me at T2. It gave me wings. 10km later I was inside the top 160 and I could see clusters of 3–5 runners ahead, which I set about psychologically breaking — overtaking them quickly and decisively, even though I was dying inside.

At the base of Zombie Hill, Adi joined me. I was around position 132–135. I thought we'd make it — but about 2km up the hill I collapsed. I couldn't walk. I told Adi it was bad. He had a sandwich, a banana, and some water. I took a bite of the sandwich and spat it out. My enzymes had been working perfectly all day — stomach in perfect shape until now. But I was empty.

Adi said we were low on water but to drink from the mountain streams. Banana and water would fix it. And it did. Within 30 minutes we'd caught the group we'd started the hill with.

The gate — 500 metres away, and then closed

With about 3km to the gate, another competitor passed us with his pacer. Adi had been warning me for a while that we weren't safe. But I couldn't believe we'd lose it now. I was already picturing the black jersey, the group photo the next day.

I looked back. The pack was getting animated — everyone calculating their last chance. We started running 50 paces on, 50 off. I looked back again: the orcs from Mordor were coming. One group surging, then another. Fuck. One more time.

We ran continuously. After Zombie Hill, legs had gone cold and the rain had started. We gritted our teeth and kept moving. The packs were already checked on our backs. We just needed to pass the gate.

Around a bend, 500 metres ahead: a cluster of people and a large hut. That was it. When we were about 200 metres away, someone ran past us in the opposite direction and told us: they've closed the gate! The finish has been moved 5km down the mountain. Wind gusting at 50km/h. The rain had properly started.

I reached the gate, stepped on the timing mat, and touched it with my hand. Frederik — the race director — was there. Half joking, I asked if he'd let me through on my own responsibility. He looked at me seriously. "No way. You have to go back. Not safe."

In xTri, for all their apparent madness, safety always comes first.

The walk back — the best moment of the day

The cold was hitting me now, so I started running back. By the time we finished the last 5km, the rain had become torrential.

I was genuinely gutted not to have the finish I'd dreamed of at Gaustatoppen. But I'd done everything I could. Maybe I could have pushed harder, been higher up the mountain when the gate closed. But there's nothing useful in that thought. I'd finished 132nd — under normal race conditions, I would have made the summit.

On the walk back from the gate, we met the girls — Alina and Carmen — climbing fast behind us. That was the most beautiful moment of the day. We stopped competing. We walked the last 5km together, laughing, reconciling, with other athletes around us. I felt like the world was mine. The psychological release was enormous. I had nothing left — physically or mentally. OK. We did it. Now what?

The new finish line stirred nothing in me. It wasn't what I'd come for. Unconsciously, the gate had been my victory roar.

The black jersey

We drove down Zombie Hill in the car, through torrential rain, and watched other athletes still climbing it through the windscreen. A brutal tableau. A real demonstration of determination — and I was grateful I wasn't living it anymore.

Dinner, celebration, sleep — happy and destroyed. It had been an infernal day. Alina and Adi had worked just as hard as I had, maybe harder in their own way. I owe everything to them. Without them, none of this would have been possible.

The next day, the awards ceremony and group photo at Gaustatoppen. 196 black jerseys were handed out — once the gate closed, the cut-off time (roughly 14h45') replaced the top-160 rule. Mine is at home. It's mine regardless.

What this race taught me — and what it means for coaching

In T2, with nothing left and everything telling me to accept the situation, something else happened instead. A shift. Not motivation from a poster. Not a pep talk. A decision — made in under 30 seconds — to reframe everything and run the best race of my life.

That's what I try to understand, and transmit, in Life Game Coaching. Not how to never feel broken. But what to do when you are — when the numbers don't add up, when the body is done, when the gap between where you are and where you need to be feels impossible.

The answer isn't always dramatic. Sometimes it's: two salt tablets, a banana, and some water from a mountain stream. Sometimes it's: let your legs go.

For now, I feel I'm done with xTri. I want to spend more time with my daughters, go to their training sessions, get out on the mountain with friends, and enjoy the life we've built. Our bubble is fantastic — and knowing I can now enjoy other parts of my life too is very comforting.

I had a lot of help for this race, and for that I'm grateful. I feel like I've closed a 10-year chapter of my life.

Keep walking. And when they say jump — you jump.