December 29, 2025

It was the kind of day where the stopwatch grew a conscience and the skis did not. Norway’s veteran diesel-turned-turbo, Astrid Øyre Slind, paced the women’s 10 km classic like someone who reads instruction manuals for fun—slow start, steady rise, authoritative finish. Austria’s ever-patient Teresa Stadlober grabbed second, and Jessie Diggins did that late-race Diggins thing to take third and the Tour lead. Sweden, meanwhile, discovered a new ski wax called “Philosophical Inquiry,” which provides little grip but plenty to think about. Even Frida Karlsson admitted she was “a bit too eager,” which is Scandi for “my skis were an allegory.”

On the men’s side, Norway’s Mattis Stenshagen took his first World Cup win and did it by out-classic-ing the classic king, Johannes Høsflot Klæbo. He even made experts reach for superlatives they were saving for the Olympics. Somewhere a diagonal-stride textbook sprouted a new chapter and a proud mustache. Klæbo still holds the Tour lead thanks to those sprint bonuses—frequent-flyer miles for fast people.

Back in the wax room of soul-searching, Finland had both sighs and fist bumps. Kerttu Niskanen roared to fourth—her own quiet rebuttal to early-season worries—while Krista Pärmäkoski slogged through lingering illness and promised to keep at it. On the men’s side, Iivo Niskanen called his own fourth place “really bad,” which is Finnish for “borderline excellent but I expected transcendence.” Perttu Hyvärinen pocketed vital Olympic résumé lines and still looked displeased for motivational purposes (there’s a system).

Elsewhere under the Tour’s tent: Mathilde Myhrvold popped a shoulder in the sprint final and now faces a nervy Olympic countdown; Slovenia’s Anže Gros scared us all by collapsing, then reassured everyone he had simply skied into the red and beyond and is okay; and the great wax debate in Sweden rolled on like a snowball that forgot how to stick (grip optional).

Beyond the skinny skis, the long-flight birds launched as the Four Hills opened in Oberstdorf, with giants soaring and Polish hopes caught between nostalgia and arithmetic. Domen Prevc threatened hill records, the KO pairings did their annual matchmaking, and entire fanbases held their breath between telemarks.

So the Tour rolls on: a little bruised, a touch philosophical, and thoroughly entertaining. Slind looks steady, Stenshagen looks sharp, Diggins leads, and half of Scandinavia is double-checking the kick zone. Somewhere, a wax tech whispers to a ski: “Trust me this time.”