XTERRA Germany: When the Plan Falls Apart
There was something different about standing on the start line at XTERRA Germany this year. For once, I wasn't nervous about what might happen; I felt calm, excited and, with this being my final XTERRA race of the 2026 season, I felt like I had nothing to lose.
Germany had beaten me three times before, so this year I had deliberately changed my approach. Rather than racing the XTERRA Czech Short Track the previous weekend, I stayed in Prachatice for a few extra days and prioritised recovery, hoping that arriving in Germany fresher might finally give me the chance to have the race I knew I was capable of.
I also had a different race strategy.
I had spent more time warming up on land before the swim and was going to commit properly to the opening 400 metres, something I'd been working on in training because I knew that if I could stay with the group until the second buoy, I had a much better chance of staying attached rather than finding myself swimming alone. On the bike, I wanted to be braver and more fearless, racing towards the front and taking more risks on the technical sections, even if it meant potentially paying for it on the run.
I was genuinely excited to see what would happen.
What I didn't realise was that having a plan is only useful if you have the legs to execute it.
The Swim: doing what I'd practised
The opening of the swim actually went exactly as I'd hoped. I committed from the start, got into the group I wanted and forced myself to stay uncomfortable, even though I reached that familiar point where you feel like you can't breathe, everything in you is telling you to slow down, but you know that if you do, the group will disappear.
I'd practised this feeling both in training and on the course a few days earlier, so I knew what it would feel like and wasn't surprised by it. I stayed with the group for around 350 metres, all the way to the furthest turn buoy, but as we went around it a small gap opened.
I knew from my practice that this was the moment where I had to make a decision. If I panicked and tried to force myself back onto the group, I risked blowing myself up, so I tried to close it initially, swimming hard and hoping I could bridge the gap, but it simply wasn't coming back.
So I accepted it and settled into my own pace.
It was disappointing, particularly because the same thing had happened in Czech and Molveno, but at least there was something useful to take from it. I now know that my weakness isn't the start; I can commit, get into the group and stay there for a significant part of the opening section. The problem is staying attached when the pace changes, and that's something I'll be working on over the winter.
Rather than getting stressed about it, I accepted it and got on with the next part of the race.
Tumbleweed
When I got out of the water, it felt like tumbleweed.
All the bikes around me in transition were gone and there was nobody to be seen, which was a very different feeling to Czech and Molveno where I had at least been able to see the faster swimmers ahead and had people to chase.
But I stayed calm.
I'd been in this position before and I knew I could ride my way back into a race, so I got onto the bike and started working. Rob was on the sidelines and called out, “Now we get to work,” which was exactly what I needed to hear.
The problem was that the bike didn't feel quite right.
It wasn't terrible and I didn't feel completely empty, but I could tell I wasn't producing the same strength I'd had in Czech. Normally, when I catch someone, I can make the pass and quickly put some distance into them, whereas today it was taking much longer to catch the athletes ahead and, once I'd passed them, I wasn't dropping them in the way I normally would.
That was the first point where I started thinking, this just doesn't feel good today.
But I remembered Czech, where I'd had a similar feeling and eventually found my way back into the race, so I kept believing that maybe the same thing would happen again. I kept pushing and waiting for the legs to switch on.
They didn't.
And around eight kilometres into the bike, the race really started to unravel.
Over the bars
The first technical section is one I've always found challenging, with steep, sharp climbs over horrible roots followed by a short, off-camber rooty descent. Because I knew it was a section that could cause me problems, I'd spent time during the recce riding it repeatedly until I could get it right.
I knew the line.
I knew where I needed to put the power down.
And then I made a mistake.
Honestly, I still don't really know exactly what I did. One moment I was powering over the roots and the next I was over the bars, my stomach smashed into the top tube and my bike tangled underneath me.
I got up quickly, tried to collect myself, retrieved my Garmin and got my balance before getting back onto the bike, but as soon as I clipped in I realised the chain was jammed.
So I had to get off again.
I was standing on the side of a narrow trail trying to sort out a mechanical problem while other riders were trying to fly past, and for a moment I genuinely thought my race might be over. I couldn't free the chain properly, but eventually I managed to adjust it onto another cog, get everything moving and remount the bike.
I was bruised and shaken, but still racing.
The problem was that I'd lost something in the crash: confidence.
The next descent, I rode like Bambi. It wasn't that I suddenly couldn't ride a mountain bike; I'd simply lost the flow that makes technical riding feel instinctive. Instead of looking ahead and committing to the terrain, I was suddenly thinking about every root, every corner and every line.
I also noticed my handlebars weren't straight.
I knew there was a technical zone at the top of the long climb to Oybin, so I decided I'd get there and make a decision about whether I needed to stop.
For now, I kept going.
Still in the race
The climb gave me a little bit of hope. I managed to find some rhythm again and started to feel like maybe I could still turn things around. I was still sitting in third and began to think that perhaps the podium wasn't completely out of reach if I could settle down and start riding properly again.
Then Paula came past.
Paula is a first-year elite and an absolute weapon on the mountain bike, with the technical skills and climbing power to make life very difficult for anyone around her, and seeing her ride away from me was a pretty clear indication that I was in trouble.
At the same time, I was genuinely impressed. This was a big goal for her, racing in Germany as a German athlete, and she was having a brilliant race, so even through my own frustration I was pleased to see her doing so well.
Her passing also made the decision about my handlebars for me.
I wasn't going to stop. They were crooked, but they were manageable, so I would keep going.
The next descent was a chunky, rocky one that I'd ridden well in training. It's fast, but you have to pick your line carefully because one mistake and you're off. I managed to get myself down, but it was nowhere near the descent I knew I could ride, and that was frustrating because I knew I had the ability to nail it.
Paula disappeared ahead of me.
Then, at the bottom, I felt something else I really didn't need.
My rear tyre was soft.
I had no idea how much air I'd lost, whether I needed to stop or whether I could safely keep riding, so I started carefully feeling what the bike was doing underneath me. The rear wheel was wobbling through the corners and felt slow when I was pedalling, but it was still rideable and nobody was shouting that I had a flat.
I'd burped some air rather than completely destroying the tyre, but it was enough to make the rest of the bike another exercise in managing what I had rather than riding the race I'd planned.
Just keep moving forward
From there, I never really found the flow again.
I was making little mistakes all the time and couldn't seem to piece the sections together, so eventually I stopped expecting the race to suddenly turn around and simply focused on doing the best I could with what I had.
Maybe the run legs would come.
Maybe someone else would fall apart.
Maybe I could still limit the damage.
I came into T2 in fourth and even the transition was sloppy. It was one of those days where it felt like I couldn't do anything right, but there was no point standing there getting frustrated, so I put it to one side and got the job done.
When I got off the bike I knew immediately that the run legs weren't there.
And I knew they weren't coming back.
People were encouraging me from the sidelines, expecting me to do what I normally do and run my way back into the race, but I knew that today was going to be a tall ask. It was also over 30°C, and by this point my whole body felt completely drained.
The first few kilometres of the run were awful. Instead of powering away strongly and trying to hunt down the podium, I was thinking about how I could manage my effort enough to make it to the finish line. At times during the bike and particularly during the run, I genuinely wondered whether I would finish the race at all.
So I broke it down into small sections.
Just get through this bit.
Then the next.
Keep moving forward.
It's advice I give to other people when they're suffering through an XTERRA race, and on this day I had to follow my own advice.
I got splits to Paula and realised the gap was only around 40 seconds, but honestly, by that point my priority was simply making it to the finish line.
A little bit better
Somewhere during the second lap, things started to feel slightly better. Maybe I'd cooled down a little, maybe I'd settled into the effort, or maybe I'd simply accepted what the day was going to be and stopped expecting something different to happen.
Whatever the reason, I felt a little stronger and at times I could see Paula ahead.
I wanted that podium desperately and tried to push on, but the gap wasn't closing and Paula was running strongly enough to stay away from me.
There was nothing more I could do.
Sometimes your body has other ideas.
Eventually, I crossed the finish line in fourth.
Relief, then disappointment
The immediate feeling wasn't disappointment.
It was relief.
At various points during the race I'd genuinely wondered whether I would make it to the finish, so simply crossing the line felt like something I needed to be pleased about.
I was also genuinely happy to see Paula on the podium.
But when you finish fourth, there is no podium celebration and no champagne shower. I grabbed two bottles of water and slumped against the fence, trying to recover and process what had just happened.
This one hurt.
Not because fourth place is a bad result. It isn't.
What hurt was knowing how much I'd done to give myself the best possible chance of having a good day here. I'd skipped the Czech short track, stayed in Prachatice for extra days, prioritised recovery, changed my race strategy, worked on my swim starts and spent time practising the technical sections I knew could cause me problems.
I'd done everything I could think of to finally get one up on XTERRA Germany.
And I still didn't show what I know I'm capable of.
For the days afterwards, I found myself analysing everything, trying to work out why I hadn't performed the way I wanted to and why this particular course seems to have a way of beating me every time I come here.
But eventually I realised that perhaps there isn't always an answer.
Sometimes you simply have to work with what you have.
You can prepare properly, arrive confident, make a good plan and still find yourself standing beside a trail with a jammed chain, crooked handlebars, a soft rear tyre and legs that don't want to respond.
The important thing is what you do next.
The bigger picture
I didn't have the race I wanted in Germany. I made mistakes, lost confidence, couldn't execute the bike strategy I'd planned and couldn't rely on my run to rescue the day.
But I didn't quit.
There were plenty of moments when I wanted to, particularly after the crash and mechanical problems, and there were certainly moments during the run when simply continuing to move forward felt like the hardest thing I could do.
But I kept moving.
And perhaps that's the part of the race I need to remember.
Overall, I've had a fantastic XTERRA season. I've taken my racing to another level and, on a good day, I've shown that I can be a genuine contender for a World Cup win.
But Germany has also reminded me that there are still plenty of areas where I can improve.
The swim is one. I need to become better at staying attached once the pace changes rather than simply getting a good start.
My technical riding is another. Not necessarily because I can't ride the sections, but because I need to become more consistent and maintain my confidence when something goes wrong.
And perhaps the biggest one is learning how to limit the damage when I don't have the day I want.
I don't think the answer is expecting every bad day to somehow become a good one. Sometimes your body simply isn't giving you what you need. The goal is to get better at recognising that, adapting quickly, making good decisions and finding a way to get as much as possible from whatever you have on that particular day.
Those are the things I'll be taking into the winter.
Germany was my final XTERRA race of 2026, and although it wasn't the ending I wanted, it has given me plenty to work on. Now I have a couple of different goals to enjoy before I properly switch off for the off-season and start thinking about 2027.
Interestingly, for the entire race I kept telling myself that I would never race XTERRA Germany again.
Four times had been enough.
But now that the frustration has started to fade, there is a small part of me that wants to come back and level up.
So maybe, just maybe, I'll be back for number five.
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