Finland's Sauna World Championships

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Outside Magazine, March 2005

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Hotties (cont.)

APART FROM SITTING in a hot sauna, there's not a whole lot to do in Heinola, unless sitting in an even hotter sauna qualifies. About ten years ago, a group of nominally sane locals began doing just that, competing with one another to see who could endure the most heat. These fiery matches eventually went national, then international, and finally, in 1999, the Sauna World Championships was born.

On this August afternoon, the first day of the sixth annual SWC, the sky is cloudless, the temperature is 75 degrees, and a breeze is blowing off Heinola's Päijänne Lake. It's a perfect setting for watching 78 male and 18 female contestants from 11 countries swelter inside one of two overheated saunas elevated on a capacious stage. The stage is surrounded by a grandstand filled with about 1,500 beer-drinking, sausage-devouring spectators.

The rules for the SWC go like this: The first day there are 13 preliminary heats (aptly named), with six contestants per sauna. The two men from each heat who are the last to leave the sauna under their own steam move on to the qualifying round. The 12 qualifying winners move on to the next day's semifinals. The six winners of that round move on to the final, where the champion is crowned.

The temperature starts out at 230 degrees; every 30 seconds a half-liter of water hits the stove, which provides the drama of a scorching blast yet doesn't induce the health risks of an increased temperature. To show they're still alive, the competitors must give a thumbs-up sign at regular intervals. The only other movement they can make is to wipe the sweat off their faces. They can't disturb their fellow competitors or even talk to them, which means no cremation jokes.

"I go for sauna bath every day," observes a Finnish woman seated next to me on the bleachers, "but this competition—it is only for crazy peoples."

"So why are you here?" I ask.

"I am a nurse," she replies. "They may need me."

"The door is hope," Luke says. "You're looking at it, and you say to yourself, If I don't get out of here now, I'm history."

There are also two paramedics and a doctor standing by. Additionally, before being allowed to compete, each contestant needs to have a clean bill of health from his or her doctor.

At 1 p.m. the first round begins. Five large Nordic guys and one small Japanese man, Kazuhiko Nishio, walk onstage dressed in Speedos or competition-length swim trunks (no longer than eight inches down the leg), then step blithely—rather too blithely, in my opinion—into the sauna.

From the grandstand, it isn't easy to look into the sauna—the tiny windows are fogged and the Japanese Television Network's nine-person crew is hogging the space. No matter. An enormous video screen gives the crowd an insect's-eye view. It's a strange sort of voyeurism: We can see every blob of sweat, every pained grimace, and every increasingly feeble thumbs-up in bold Technicolor.

After three minutes and 13 seconds, Kazuhiko—apparently not familiar with the concept of sisu—rushes from the sauna and disappears behind the stage, where he steps into a brisk shower. He's soon followed by three of the five Nordic guys, who look a little like slabs of rare roast beef. This is thanks to their inflated capillaries: In a typical sauna, the blood flow through the skin can be 20 to 40 times faster than at room temperature. Here it's probably closer to 50 times, which means the competitors' hearts are beating at almost twice their normal rates.

Several minutes later, the last two men—Finnish, of course—exit the sauna within seconds of each other, walking so casually that, except for their scarlet, half-naked bodies, they might be a pair of boulevardiers going for a stroll. As heat follows heat, it becomes clear that Kimmo was right: The only ones not making speedy exits are the Finns.

"Hell could not possibly be hotter than that sauna," one of the Germans tells me backstage. He had to withdraw after the first round, having made the crucial mistake of training in a dry rather than a steam sauna.

Many of these guys are suffering, but, as spectators, we're hoping they'll suffer more, subject themselves to higher and higher doses of heat, climb to as-yet-unachieved summits of pain. Call it the Vicarious Displeasure Principle: An ordeal, whether on a mountain, on an ice floe, or in a sauna, can be quite gratifying—as long as someone else is experiencing it.

Suddenly the Swedish spectators, instantly identifiable because they all have their nation's flag painted on their faces, are cheering and blowing into bullhorns. Their country's top-seeded competitor, 37-year-old Anders Mellert, has made it to the qualifying round.

"This is big surprise," the nurse tells me. "We Finns think Swedes are . . ." She uses a Finnish word I don't know and can't spell.

The gentleman sitting behind me taps my shoulder. "I think the equivalent word in English is ‘candy-assed,' " he says.

As it turns out, Anders, candy-assed or not, lasts only 3:43 in the qualifying round and doesn't make the semifinals, which will be held tomorrow.

Meanwhile, for Leo, the three-time world champion, the first two rounds are a piece of cake. He might as well be sitting at home in front of his TV. He remains in the sauna for 9:16 and easily qualifies for the semis.

"Last year the kiuas was only 16 kilowatts," he tells me later. "This year it's got two more kilowatts, so now the sauna is just right."

Back on the video screen, Luke, the Australian, is looking as though he'd rather be Down Under, and every one of his approximately 2.3 million sweat glands seems to be in overdrive. After 4:03, he rushes out, forfeiting his slim shot at world champion.

Later, backstage, he's interviewed by a Reuters reporter. "The door is hope," he says. "You're looking at it, and you say to yourself, If I don't get out of here now, I'm history."

"Would you do it again?" the reporter asks.

"Of course."

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