KEARNS, Utah — The race took place more than three years ago and lasted less than 42 seconds, but Apolo Anton Ohno remembers every detail. As he watched the replay last month at the practice rink here, he surged with the same euphoria, leaning on each turn, fist pumping at the finish.

After Ohno won gold in that race, the 500-meter short-track speedskating final at the Turin Games in Italy, he appeared on a Wheaties cereal box, signed with a Hollywood talent agency, and ruled the television show “Dancing With the Stars.”

The blossoming entertainment career led Ohno and his father, Yuki, to consider the transition out of skating. By then, Ohno had won almost every race an elite skater could enter and had collected two golds and a total of five Olympic medals.

But the race lingered, always, even as Ohno waltzed and tangoed his way into American living rooms. Rarely a day passed when he did not remember that feeling, addictive as any drug.

Eventually, it prompted his return to skating, to the world championships this weekend in Vienna and, if the plan holds, to the Vancouver Olympics in 11 months.

Because for those precious seconds, Ohno was not solid, or good, or great, or even spectacular.

He was perfect.

His coach’s screams echoed in his ears after Ohno drew the spot he wanted, the No. 1 inside lane, in a 4 1/2-lap 500-meter race in which the start is crucial.

Already, the Canadian contenders Francois-Louis Tremblay and Eric Bedard had false-started.

Ohno decided to perfectly time the third start, and his legs churned at the exact moment the starting gun sounded, possibly even earlier. Yuki Ohno said it was as if his son were connected to that gun.

He darted to an early lead, but he also knew how much could still go wrong. The 500 is a pure sprint. He described it as “40 seconds of mayhem” and “five guys trying to eat you.”

Ohno spent the first half of the race building speed by finding the right path on the frozen oval — not too wide and not too tight. He quickly gained control. All the sounds, the fans and the horns in the arena, had faded into silence.

Ohno arrived in Italy with a bum ankle and a strained hamstring. As much as he tried to forget the pain, he turned in lap times so slow that he estimated he was skating at 60 percent of full health.

Favored in the 1,500 meters, the same race in which he had won gold four years earlier, Ohno collided with a Chinese skater. At full strength, the contact would not have bumped him off course. Instead, he spun out of contention and into a stunned locker room.

Before his next race, the 1,000 meters, Ohno said he had a dream in which he overtook a South Korean competitor at the last second to win gold. The actual race played out in reverse: Ohno hesitated, just slightly — a moment of self-doubt, a lack of confidence. With 31⁄2 laps to go, he was overtaken by a South Korean and finished third.

Ohno met with his Olympic adviser, who told him he should be proud of the bronze medal and his two-time Olympic career. Ohno took that to mean that United States officials had lost faith in him. They considered him a long shot in the 500.

Yuki Ohno knew better. “Apolo always delivers when the pressure mounts to unbelievable intensity,” he said.

Competitors skated inches behind Ohno, waiting for him to make his first mistake. He glanced backward, just slightly, which increased his heart rate by 40 beats a minute.

Fifteen seconds remained. After thousands of training hours and hundreds of competitions, Ohno could sense his deepest fears as he reached what he called the purest form of sport — man versus self, triumph or fail. He gained separation, a rarity in a race so short.

“I went absolutely ballistic,” he said. “Every single ounce of energy, every single type of training I’d ever done in my life, went into those last 15 seconds.”

Ohno crossed the line, raised both arms and screamed so loud his father could hear it in the stands. This really happened, he remembers thinking. Apolo, you really did it. You had the perfect race.

Ohno compares his life, his ability to balance competing interests, to an antique Japanese dresser. His has compartments for dancing and acting, a large drawer for skating, even empty drawers waiting to be filled.

After the race, Ohno shut the skating drawer and never talked about returning or retiring. He signed with a talent agency that counts Brad Pitt and Adam Sandler among its clients.

On “Dancing With the Stars” he found he loved the camera, and his victory on the show proved to him that audiences in America loved him back.

He slept in. He ate pancakes for breakfast instead of plain oatmeal. He rode in limousines and signed autographs.

Eventually, he began to ask himself tough questions.

Had the perfect race drained his passion for the sport? Did he have the same hunger he possessed at 18?

“Am I willing to sacrifice, you know, a life?” he asked.

The deeper he dug, the more he discovered that being an Olympian defined him. He kept returning to that single race, that feeling.

“I know that I was meant to skate,” Ohno said. “Whether it’s to stand on the podium again or deliver a different message, I don’t know. I’ve won everything that I can possibly win. I’ve been consistent. I’ve had amazing races. I’ve had the perfect race.

“And I really, honestly, in my heart believe there’s a reason why I’m still skating. There’s a reason I’m still healthy, a reason I’m still winning, a reason I’m still here.”

Ohno’s elite training started in Vancouver, the same place it is likely to end next February. Whether it is fate or destiny or simply the act of coming full circle, Ohno appreciates the symmetry.

To the perfect race he skated in Italy, he hopes to add the perfect ending.