A winter’s day in 2015, New York City. Investigator Victor Burgos mentally prepared for the conversation ahead. In mere moments, he could either gain a partner in the anti-doping battle or face a disheartening confrontation that would lead him back to square one. More often than not, it would be the latter. The silence among drug users mirrors that of the mafia: no one speaks and few will inform on their cohorts.
He was about to meet a distance runner, blissfully unaware of what awaited him. This man was exceptional by typical standards, boasting a marathon personal best that might classify him as world-class. However, in Kenyan terms, he was merely a middle-tier runner, unlikely to become an Olympic champion. Complicating matters further, he had tested positive for 19-nortestosterone, a potent steroid.
The athlete arrived, and Burgos approached him with a business card from the United States Anti-Doping Agency (Usada) and a letter detailing the positive test results. After introducing himself, Burgos had to inform the athlete of his rights, particularly the option to verify the positive result by testing his B sample. Laboratories divide an athlete’s urine sample, testing the first half—the A sample—and reserving the second half for potential re-confirmation in the presence of the athlete and their advisers. In almost all cases, it yields identical findings. Choosing his words with intention, Burgos recalled telling the athlete, “This is not the end of the world. This doesn’t define who you are. If you made a mistake, we can talk about that.”
Burgos described his approach as offering a chance to mitigate the consequences of the individual’s actions, framing the opportunity as one for “substantial assistance” to Usada in catching other dopers. Although this anti-doping provision is available to all, it is rarely invoked, as most athletes cling to their denials, claiming they have done nothing wrong and their positive tests are erroneous. “He was shocked and initially dishonest,” Burgos recounted. “He insisted: ‘I don’t know how the substance entered my body; this is a lie.’” “Why don’t we take a walk?” Burgos proposed. “Let’s grab a coffee.”
As they strolled, their discussion contrasted sharply with the common good cop-bad cop dynamic of interrogations typically held in shadowy rooms. As chief investigator at Usada, Burgos reviews all positive test results in the United States, and something about this case piqued his interest. The substance alone—19-nortestosterone—was a clear indicator of potential intentional doping.
Moreover, the athlete’s competitive history intrigued Burgos: he had a presence on the US road racing scene, a sub-niche of the sport that can be both lucrative and inviting for young African athletes, where a marathon win might net $10,000 (£7,750) and a 10K victory could bring in $5,000. These races often occur in mid-sized American cities, less prestigious than locations like London, New York, or Chicago, and while major marathons offer around $55,000 for the win, accumulating numerous victories at these smaller events can result in a comfortable income. Unfortunately for this athlete, anti-doping measures are sparse at many of these lower-tier races, but luck had it that Usada was present at his event.
Burgos weighed his options. More established Olympians with reputations at stake tend to be less forthcoming, while this individual might be more amenable to dialogue. A critical factor was the athlete’s address in New York, a city where Burgos himself resided, making the decision to visit his apartment quite straightforward.
“Typically, when an athlete tests positive, they receive an email from the organization,” Burgos explained. “We send a list of options within a standard legal notice, and that usually concludes the matter.” This email is laden with jargon and acronyms: “Usada collected a sample; your A sample shows an adverse analytical finding [AAF], suggesting a possible anti-doping rule violation [ADRV]…”
Burgos decided to consult with Usada’s general counsel, requesting to delay the email notification. “I want to inform him personally,” he insisted. “I will go to his apartment and speak to him face to face.”
Once the initial confrontation passed, the athlete agreed to Burgos’s suggestion for coffee. “We strolled around Manhattan as I sought to soften the impact of the news,” Burgos shared. “I didn’t want him leaving feeling overwhelmed. Everyone reacts to bad news differently, and I was wary of being the catalyst for someone harming themselves. All I had on him was information I had gathered online.” They settled at a Starbucks. “Alright. Let’s work through this,” Burgos said. “Let’s discuss where you were prior to arriving in the US for this event.”
Burgos already knew the athlete was coming from a training camp in Kenya, where he trained with a reputable group boasting a strong anti-doping protocol. Many athletes there successfully train without resorting to performance enhancers. Burgos meticulously evaluated the athlete’s responses. “How much of an investment am I willing to make to allow him to continue being dishonest? He doesn’t know me yet. He needs to comprehend my intentions—am I trying to deceive him?”
The young Kenyan prepared to transition to a new training camp in the US, where athletes would benefit from extensive mountain trails and high-altitude training, fostering improved red blood cell production. While many athletes thrive there without performance enhancers, others exploit the extensive networks of drug dealers, seeking favored substances like EPO or steroids.
A deal was proposed: go undercover and provide authorities with information about other dopers he was connected to, and he could continue competing. Their next meeting came a week later, at which point a formal cooperation agreement had emerged, now drawing in the federal Drug Enforcement Agency. As the performance-enhancing drugs used by distance athletes infringed upon federal law, the athlete became an undercover informant for the DEA.
‘There’s a certain level of desperation’
This scenario resembles a Hollywood narrative, in the vein of Donnie Brasco through an anti-doping lens, though it should not diminish the severity of the situation. Investigators identified a clear pattern from the athlete’s testimony. Young Kenyan athletes found themselves encouraged to come to the USA, often entered into B-list road races where anti-doping measures were minimal. Many were offered the means to dope; coupled with their natural abilities and pharmaceutical enhancements, success often followed. However, the conditions regarding the distribution of prize money and potential deductions for ‘expenses’ remained ambiguous.
Burgos noted, “There’s a certain level of desperation that leads athletes to get embroiled in these doping schemes due to poverty, lack of education, and the allure of traveling beyond Kenya. These underlying issues are why this occurs. We aim to hold accountable those who facilitate this, recruitable young athletes, and make grand promises while doping them, whether knowingly or not. That’s the core issue we seek to expose.”
The athlete effectively rejoined the training group, initially without a sanction to avoid drawing suspicion, and was permitted to continue competing. (His performances in the previously compromised races would later be annulled once his reduced sanction was registered.) There was one stipulation: no doping.
“We actively monitored him under testing during this time, so he was required not to dope, and he was obligated to report any incidences immediately,” Burgos stated. “We had informed the World Anti-Doping Agency [Wada] and the international track and field federation, who all approved.”
Now, drug testers had an informant on the inside. “This was not a decision taken lightly,” Burgos concluded. “I stayed in close contact, regularly communicating with him to ensure he was coping well mentally. This training group wasn’t the only one under scrutiny; we directed considerable attention to another group as well.”
The advantage for testers lies in the fact that doping typically escalates during training. “Athletes who intentionally dope and test positive during competitions usually make some grave error or mismanage their dosages too close to events,” Burgos elaborated. “Doping predominantly takes place during training, which allows for tougher workouts and improved recovery from exertion or injuries.”
Many substances have a limited window for detection, and such intelligence enables anti-doping authorities to execute more focused testing strategies, catching cheats off-guard. However, it’s important to note that Anti-Doping Agencies don’t require a positive test to impose a ban. Whistleblower accounts, evidence from emails, and possession—classified as non-analytical violations—can all serve as grounds for an athlete’s prohibition.
The decimation of Kenyan distance running
In May 2015, a distance runner residing in Albuquerque was unexpectedly pulled over by DEA agents. Unbeknownst to him, he had been under surveillance, and the agents had a clear objective due to their inside knowledge. Faced with limited options, he consented to a search of his home.
What the agents uncovered were vials of AICAR, a muscle-building, fat-burning drug popular among cyclists and long-distance runners. As a distance runner himself, his peak performance days were fading. However, he was supplying elite athletes training in Albuquerque. This individual would face a four-year ban and subsequently leave the US. An associate, also identified through intelligence gathering years later, was banned for eight years.
During this phase of intelligence operations, Kenyan distance running fell into a downward spiral. The iconic image of the Kenyan runner breezing past their European and American rivals, bolstered by their clean living and the ten-mile trek to school in the high-altitude Rift Valley, was painstakingly dismantled by targeted testing.
Among the most notable Kenyan athletes facing sanctions during this time was Wilson Kipsang, the former marathon world record holder and 2014 London Marathon victor. Although he did not fail any drug tests, he received a four-year ban for four “whereabouts failures” occurring between April 2018 and May 2019, indicating he was not at the location he had specified for drug screenings during the required times.
Every elite athlete must adhere to this condition, ensuring their availability for testing. Missing two scheduled appointments within a 12-month span leads to a suspension. Kipsang maintained he had never engaged with prohibited substances and that drug testers had mishandled the procedures, rejecting his explanations for missing tests inaccurately. Nevertheless, the hearing concluded he had falsified evidence.
Jemima Sumgong, who claimed the Olympic marathon title in 2016 and triumphed at the London Marathon the same year, received an eight-year ban in January 2019 after World Athletics, the sport’s governing body, uncovered “compelling evidence” that she had falsified her medical records and lied about her whereabouts after testing positive for EPO in 2017. Sumgong contested these findings, asserting that emergency medical treatment was most likely the cause of her positive result.
Daniel Wanjiru, the 2017 London Marathon winner, faced a ban in October 2020 lasting until December 2023 after his blood passport indicated “abnormalities” suggestive of “prohibited methods” usage, a conclusion reached by the Athletics Integrity Unit (AIU). Wanjiru underwent testing 16 times between April 2017 and 2019, with his 14th test reflecting elevated hemoglobin levels. He has denied utilizing performance-enhancing methods or substances, while his managing company expressed their “disappointment” with the ruling.
Asbel Kiprop, the 2008 Olympic 1500m champion and three-time world champion, received a four-year ban in April 2019 due to a positive EPO test, a substance that enhances red blood cell levels. He has consistently proclaimed his innocence.
Currently, 91 Kenyan track and field athletes are banned by the AIU, an organization that collaborated with the Usada intelligence initiative. This statistic places them at the forefront of doping violations, ahead of India with 90 cases and Russia with 78. Eventually, Burgos’s informant did receive a sanction, and their races before the positive test were annulled from competition records, but not until long after the original findings, during which time he had been active as an undercover runner.
Though the measures appear extreme, Burgos firmly argued: “Testing alone is insufficient. Just look at the stark numbers. Globally, we collect 250,000-300,000 samples each year, yet fewer than 0.5% return positive results. That is simply unacceptable. This level of action is necessary. You must find innovative approaches. However, such tactics carry risks, and many organizations are hesitant due to the fear involved in endorsing such initiatives. Thankfully, we have a chief executive, Travis Tygart, who shares a similar mindset. Only through investigative power can we reveal the depths of organized doping schemes. This was the strategy we employed in this context.”
The first Kenyan athletes to make Olympic history did so at the 1968 Mexico City games, with Kip Keino being the most notable, achieving three gold medals in an era devoid of doping and fueled solely by the mountain air of the Rift Valley. The subsequent hegemony in long-distance running and the financial gains connected represent a stark contrast to that innocent era.
Due to legal considerations and in efforts to safeguard the identities of individuals involved in undercover operations, the Observer has opted not to disclose any names.
