X-Pyr 2026 – One Step at a Time
X-Pyr 2026 – One Step at a Time
I wasn't sure if I was ready. A winter full of illness had left me without the training I had hoped for. I had never flown in the Pyrenees before, only heard stories about endless wind, violent thunderstorms, and huge areas where landing simply wasn't an option. Even my support team was completely new to multi-day hike-and-fly racing.
More than once I asked myself, Should I even go?
But somewhere beneath all those doubts was something stronger: curiosity. The unknown frightened me, but it also pulled me in. So despite everything, I packed my glider and headed to the Pyrenees.
Before the race, my supporter Stefan and I visited several turnpoints (mandatory checkpoints along the route) to get a first impression of the terrain. The mountains immediately showed their character. Our only practice flight ended after five minutes when we sank out, and many of the valleys were exactly as people had described – kilometres of dense forest without a single safe landing field. It certainly didn't make me feel more confident.
The night before the start, sleep was almost impossible. One question kept running through my mind: What am I doing here?
Day 1
The next morning greeted us with the hottest temperatures seen in years. Forty degrees Celsius. The race began with a brutal 24-kilometre hike and more than 1,100 metres of climbing. Fifty teams stood on the start line, including more women than ever before in X-Pyr history.
When the start gun fired, everyone charged off. For the first few kilometres I tried to keep up, but it quickly became obvious that this pace would destroy me long before reaching launch.
So I slowed down.
That decision defined my entire race.
Instead of racing the others, I started racing only myself. One step. One breath. One small goal at a time. Just reach Turnpoint 1.
The heat was relentless. My supporters poured water over me at every opportunity while blisters formed between my toes. The climb to Larun felt endless. No wind. No shade. Only burning sunshine and uncertainty about whether flying would even be possible.
As I climbed towards launch, the wind was gusty and unpredictable. By the time I reached the top, the conditions looked surprisingly manageable. But looking down, I could already see other pilots flying low into vast stretches of forest with almost no safe landing options while battling the headwind.
But once I was in the air, everything changed.
This wasn't a day to fly fast. It was a day to stay airborne.
Thermal after thermal, I worked my way slowly against the wind, making every metre count. I gained position while others pushed harder. Eventually I landed high on a mountain, packed quickly, and started another climb – somehow even hotter than the first.
At 6 p.m., I launched again.
Together with giant griffon vultures circling in the evening lift, I climbed over 1,000 metres above launch. Flying alongside these incredible birds through the golden light is something I will never forget. Those are the moments that remind me why I love paragliding so much.
The following days became a continuous lesson in patience.
Every morning began with another hike. Every afternoon brought new decisions.
Should I wait?
Should I launch?
Should I land?
The Pyrenees constantly demanded respect.
Day 2
One day I found myself crossing endless plateaus filled with wild horses before entering vast forests where landing was impossible. Another afternoon, after reaching Turnpoint 2, I watched a thunderstorm rapidly build while climbing for another flight.
Once I was airborne, the lift became explosive. Five metres per second up while flying full speed on the accelerator. I looked back and saw lightning striking behind me.
For me, the decision was simple.
I spiralled down and landed.
Many other competitors continued flying.
I didn't.
Before the race I had promised myself one thing: safety comes first.
No result was worth breaking that promise.
That evening I had mixed emotions. I was proud of staying true to my values, but frustrated to lose positions. Looking back now, I know it was absolutely the right decision.
Day 3
On day 3 everything finally came together.
The mountains became bigger, the flying longer, and I found an incredible rhythm. Together with other pilots we carefully navigated around controlled airspace before facing one of the biggest challenges of the race – crossing the main Pyrenean ridge in a strong north wind.
My first attempt failed.
The wind simply pushed me back.
Instead of forcing it, I turned around, climbed again, made a new plan together with my supporters, and tried once more.
This time I crossed the ridge with barely ten metres to spare.
Suddenly everything opened up.
The air became smoother, I was finally on the windward side, and the kilometres started flowing beneath my feet. After 9 hours and 40 minutes in the air, I landed more than 200 kilometres from where I had launched that morning.
It remains one of the most demanding – and rewarding – flights of my life.
Day 4
Day 4 reminded me why hike-and-fly racing is so special.
You rarely follow the route you would choose yourself. Instead, you solve one problem after another. You adapt. You improvise. You discover places you would never otherwise visit.
A beautiful mountain lake became our launch site after changing our original plan because of the wind. Later that afternoon I crossed into Andorra, carefully threading between strong thermals and controlled airspace before reaching Turnpoint 6.
By then, I almost couldn't believe how far I had come.
Still, I refused to think about the finish.
The only thing that mattered was the next launch. The next climb. The next thermal.
That mindset carried into the final day.
Day 5
Everyone around me kept saying, “Today you'll reach the finish line.”
I didn't want to hear it.
Thinking about the finish felt overwhelming.
So once again I focused only on the next task: hike 14 kilometres, climb 900 metres, and see what the mountains would allow.
The final pass looked impossible in the strong headwind. I needed more height than the conditions were giving me, but I tried. I couldn’t make it over the pass, 100 metres were missing. I bounced off, stayed patient and looked for small lifts which would take me over the pass.
Eventually one small lift became steadier and finally I drifted over the pass and out towards the flats.
Only then did I realise that I might actually finish.
The last kilometres were no easier.
The afternoon heat returned with full force. After 42 kilometres of running over the flats the final climb was perhaps the hardest of the entire race. Forty degrees, no wind, evening sun on the western slope, and a body that had already given everything for five days.
I wasn't sure I would make it.
But step after step, with plenty of breaks, I reached the top.
After 465 kilometres of flying, 147 kilometres of hiking, 7,762 metres climbed, more than 22 hours in the air and almost 34 hours on foot, I finally saw the finish line.
It didn't feel real.
I had become the first woman ever to finish X-Pyr.
What stays with me even more than any result is the incredible team that stood behind me every single day.
The wind was too strong for the traditional final glide to the Mediterranean, so we walked down together instead.
One last hike.
When we reached the beach, there was only one thing left to do.
All of us ran straight into the sea.
Looking back now, I don't remember my finishing time.
I remember the laughter inside the team van.
The endless thermals.
The vultures circling beside me.
The wild horses.
The butterflies.
The difficult decisions.
The moments of doubt.
And above all, the overwhelming feeling of freedom that only flying can give.
X-Pyr taught me that extraordinary achievements are rarely built on giant leaps.
They're built on thousands of small decisions.
One step.
One thermal.
One more attempt.
Because in the end, every unforgettable journey starts the same way: with the courage to take that very first step.
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