Shaun Jepson

There is no wall

2008-10-22T07:55:00.000-07:00

It’s a myth. You run for 20 miles (or 8k in my case) and you feel like death because you’ve just run 20 miles, not because of anything else.

It’s an old wife’s tale, a bit like sexing a baby because the mum’s bump is shaped like a fifty pence piece.

A 5k training run after eight hours in the office and then five pints at the Smithy – that’s what I call a wall!

The significance of numbers...

2008-04-14T09:07:00.000-07:00

My official race number arrived in the post this morning, prompting a mixed feeling of excitement and nervousness at Camp Jepson - the adopted name for my official 10k training base.

After opening the envelope, I looked at the number 9,000 (the final race number available) and started to think about the significance of race numbers.

There are numbers that people would surely not want and numbers that people will have no doubt requested. Here is a selection:

007 - I can't imagine for one minute that I will come across any runners dressed as James Bond, but hey, what a great number? Surely a fantastic opportunity to impress fellow competitors with an array of Bond quotes during the race.

0013 - A surefire recipe for disaster. If I had opened the envelope this morning and found this, I would have sealed it back up and marked it 'return to sender'.

0180 - The rise of darts as a sport will give whoever is wearing this number a great chance to scream 'ONE-HUNDRED-AND-EIGHTEEEEEEEEE' at the top of their voice when they cross the finish line. If you have the breath to do it, of course.

0999 - For some reason, I just can't get the image of someone running while wearing a flashing blue light out of my head...

9000 - The number that I will be wearing. The final race number available, which is quite fitting as I imagine I will be finishing somewhere near to the back.

For having the audacity to sign up for the Derby 10k so late, Sporting Futures thought it would be funny to give me the last possible race number.

As for the training, well last week I set out on a five-and-a-half mile run and felt pretty tired by the end but at the same time was quite happy that I completed it without any major problems.

There's only a few days before the big race. If I'm not ready now, I never will be...

And my race number is...

2008-03-30T10:41:00.000-07:00

"Hello, is that Shaun?"

"Yeah, it's Shaun here. Who is this?"

"Shaun it's Alyson from Sporting Futures. We've noticed you have not actually signed up for the 10k yet and was wondering when you were going to do so?"

This was part of a telephone conversation I had on Friday with Alyson from Sporting Futures.

The revelation that I was yet to sign up for the actual race was a cause for some embarrassment in the editorial department at the Evening Telegraph.

"Are you trying to wimp out Jeppo? You are, aren't you? You're not going to do it," came the cries from my already-signed-up gloating colleagues.

I had to take it the verbal beating. The truth is, I hadn't signed up because it had completely slipped my mind to do so.

But with only a few weeks left to race day I have been pushing my luck. As we speak, there are only a few hundred spaces left in what will be a 3,000 strong-race.

I will be signing up this week with the aid of the very helpful staff at Sporting Futures. To my embarrassment, they have joked about handing me the very final race number as punishment.

To my own credit, however, I have been working hard training. I have not ventured out to run the full 10k distance yet but I will do over the next week.

I will keep you posted as to how I do...

Me, my knee and 25 marshmallows

2008-03-09T12:09:00.000-07:00

I need to get a grip.

I've not been worrying about the Derby 10k, but I think it's fair to say that I've had the odd little moan here and there.

My occasional ramblings were put into perspective a couple of weeks ago when I interviewed a chap who could be running the race with the equivalent of eight stone slung over his back.

After speaking to James Hubbard, I felt like a bit of a wally.

Here I am worrying about the odd blood blister from my sparkling new Nike runners while Mr Hubbard is weighing up the after-effects of running more than six miles in a pair of army boots.

And that's before he loads his rucksack with the equal weight of your average 11-year-old boy.

As an army Major, Mr Hubbard is naturally fit. He said he wants to push himself in the 10k to raise as much money as possible for Cancer Research UK - a charity close to his hear after losing his father to the disease.

I just hope he doesn't complete the city-wide course before I do.

My 'intense' training regime is coming together and it is leaving me more confident as the weeks progress.

I did suffer a minor setback last week through a footballing injury which, I have to admit, was entirely self-inflicted. During a game, I thrashed at the legs of a spritely young striker who was escaping from me with the ball.

After dusting himself down, he returned his gratitude by running his studs down my knee. This pretty much meant no running for a week but I'm pleased to report I can now be seen once again meandering through the streets of Oakwood in an effort to be anything close to prepared for April 20.

As I've mentioned before in previous posts, cutting down on some of my favourite food was going to be an essential part of my training. I think it was always going to be difficult and I regret to inform you that I succumbed to some very intense peer pressure just this weekend when I was invited, or rather forced, into taking part in a marshmallow eating contest.

The rules were simple - cram as many into your mouth as possible. I think the picture pretty much explains. Anyway, I racked up a respectable 25 and walked away with the honour of 'Marshmallow Champ' 2008.

I'm back on the wagon now and promise not to fall from it again. James Hubbard could well be carrying me in his rucksack if I continue with my ways and that's a lot more than eight stone to worry about.

Pedestrian Power

2008-02-22T02:20:00.000-08:00

You see things differently when you're on foot.

As a person who rarely ever walks or runs anywhere, I've not been subjected to the perils faced by everyday pedestrians.

But, during one of my 10k training runs this week, I had my first brush with a vehicle and I'm happy to say that I emerged victorious.

Now, don't get me wrong, I hardly went head-to-head with a ten-tonne truck; my challenge came in the shape of a matchbox-like Fiat Cinquecento - which, in all honesty, I probably weighed more than.

There I was, jogging along happily to the angelic sounds of Mariah Carey, when I spotted my nemesis reversing up a driveway just a short distance away. "It's my right of way," I told myself. "The pathway runs across the driveway, he has to stop for me."

I pictured a scene from that awful '90s TV show, Gladiators. This was my Eliminator - a test of speed, skill and endurance. I switched tracks on my Ipod to Survivor's 'Eye of the tiger' and prepared for the task in hand.

I put my foot down and made for the finish line. As I got to the edge of the driveway the Fiat slammed on the brakes and admitted defeat. The smell of victory was a sweet one.

OK, so maybe I'm being a bit dramatic. If you had witnessed this event, it would have looked much like slow motion.

But you do see things differently when you get out of the car. That's one thing I have learned in my first week of training.

And as for the training itself? Well, I'd always considered myself to be relatively fit, but 10k is a long, long way.

I'm up to about four miles, which is probably double what I run in 90 minutes of football on a Saturday afternoon.

I do, however, need to address one problem; my Ipod earplugs keep falling out when I run...

A difficult start

2008-02-15T00:40:00.000-08:00

I look stupid when I run.

Please, don't laugh. I am actually being serious.

Last night, my obsessiveness even forced me into pressganging my housemate into videoing me jogging in the garden.

"Do I look stupid mate? Or even funny, do I look funny?" I asked.

"Everyone looks a bit funny when they run. Don't worry about it," he replied.

Following a fit of giggles, he observed that I looked, in his words, 'almost chicken-like'.

Working on my stride before the Derby 10k in April is certainly a long-term aim for the coming weeks.

So, I'm all signed up for the 10k. I'm not sure why to be honest, because anyone that knows me will vouch for the fact that I utterly detest running.

Football mates joke that I run in ten yard squares and that having me on the team is similar to playing with one less man. I won't argue with them. I wasn't made to run.

Saying that though, I signed up for the Derby 10k almost without thought. "Yeah, I'll do it," I told workmates. "No problem at all. Looking forward to it."

In truth, I think I kind of liked the idea of being able to tell people I had 'done' the 10k. It never really crossed my mind that I would actually have to run it.

My passive words, which had pretty much signed me to a legally binding contract, came just before Christmas. Now, with just eight weeks to go until the big day, the sheer mention of the words '10k' makes me shudder.

I sat at my desk on Wednesday and collected my thoughts. If I don't get into some sort of training, my 10k would soon become nothing more than a breathless embarrassment.

So last night, almost five weeks behind my water-drinking, salad-eating colleagues, I thought it wise to take my first jog since an overindulgent festive period.

It was hardly an inspiring outing. Jogging through Oakwood, I completed two miles in one direction and seriously contemplated getting a taxi back.

Weighing in at just short of 15-and-a-half stone, if I was going to do this, changes would have to be made. Pizza is no longer my friend. The coming weeks are going to be difficult...