We tend to imagine extraordinary physical accomplishments as exhilarating, adrenaline-fueled feats. The reality can be profoundly mundane. The achievement isn’t necessarily enduring something spectacular—it’s being willing to be bored for a very, very long time.

After cumulatively cycling the length of the United States without actually liking cycling, I set my sights on marathon swimming: specifically Swim the Suck, a 10.4-mile downstream river race through the Tennessee River Gorge. I’d prepared for months, obsessing over water temperatures and current calculations, hoping for warm water and picturesque views.

I got both. But what I hadn't anticipated was spending over five hours with my face submerged in murky water, watching my hands disappear stroke after stroke, with only four and a half minutes of total sight-seeing during feeding stops. Facing collision course kayaks, mid-stroke pee breaks, and endless internal loops of counting to 100, I learned that endurance isn't about loving the sufferfest—it's about learning not to need constant stimulation. Here is what went right, what went wrong, and how I survived my first 10-mile swim.

Eight days from now, I'll be standing at the mouth of Suck Creek preparing to swim 10 miles through a river gorge in Tennessee. In April, when I registered, the whole thing felt abstract. Back then, I was all machismo and bluster—armed with AI-generated training plans and endless confidence. Now, after six weeks on the road, 9,200-yard pool sets, and an 85°F river forecast, the clock has run out. Here is an honest pre-race look at where training landed, kayak logistics, and what happens when preparation ends and race week begins.

After decades of marathons, triathlons, and a transcontinental cycling journey, I'm diving into an entirely new element. From the frigid 56°F waters of the San Francisco Bay to the stunning limestone cliffs of the Tennessee River Gorge, here is why I just signed up for my first 10-mile marathon swim.

I was supposed to tackle my first 10k marathon swim at Lake Del Valle this weekend. Instead, a split-second slip during the morning school run changed everything. Here is how a mom-reflex moment benched my race plans, what it takes to swallow that tough pill, and how I’m already pivoting the training block for the long game.

A funny thing happens when you start training your body and mind for the seemingly impossible: your horizon expands. Route 66 wasn't the final destination; it was just the first entry on a much longer, rowdier bucket list. From 10-mile marathon swims to the Boston Marathon, we’re changing the script. Welcome to the home for chasing massive endurance goals in midlife—as a mother of two, a non-natural athlete, and someone who refuses to let go of her immature dreams.

Perfect is the enemy of progress. If I had waited until I felt completely ready to cycle Route 66, I might never have left the driveway. But riding into a baking desert with zero training, a bike bought sight unseen, and five spare tubes in my bag? That wasn't exactly smart, either. From the brutal reality of California’s roads to the magic of small-town hospitality, here is everything I learned across two cross-country journeys—and exactly what I would do differently next time.