Parkour is a sport (of sorts) played in public spaces. It involves running and jumping and climbing over walls and stairs and almost anything else. It is sort of like skateboarding, with no skateboard. Or surfing, on coral, with no surfboard, or water.
On a sunny Sunday afternoon, I went to Pyrmont Point for an Australian Parkour Association beginner’s class. I spotted a guy doing back-flips.
“Are you with Parkour?”
“Yeah, you register over there – under the tree.”
Beneath (and in) the tree were at least a hundred young folks bouncing and chatting and leaping about. I had seen them, but did not imagine that parkour could attract such a crowd. I found the guy in charge, paid my fee and signed a professional (albeit ineffective) waiver.
“Here, write your name on this wristband. And the number of an emergency contact.”
“Really?” I said. “My partner was worried she might get a call.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We haven’t lost anyone yet.”
I started writing on the inside of the wristband.
“No, no, no, write on the outside so we can read it – just in case. There’s a first time for everything you know.”
I wrote very clearly.
I was placed in a group with other first-timers (and old-timers). Our instructor was a lean guy in his twenties who introduced himself as a ‘traceur’ and then, with no explanation, took off in a run. We followed him up a flight of stairs and down a few streets, and stopped in a park in front of some expensive apartments.
We learned about the philosophy of parkour – it is a non-competitive activity based on the best ways to ‘reach’ and ‘escape’. (‘From what?’ one might be tempted to ask.)
We stretched. We crawled on the lawn, backwards, to improve coordination. And then we practised jumping on the footpath.
“Try to land quietly – like a ninja.”
This bit I liked. The teacher even complimented me on my shoes, Dunlop Volleys.
“When it comes to shoes, the cheaper the better.”
Then it came time to learn how to roll. Somersaults of sorts. On asphalt.
“On this surface, you’ll learn properly. Grass is far too forgiving.”
My first asphalt roll was not all that bad, and not all that painful. But, with every attempt, came more mistakes, more pain, and more hesitation – which brought only more mistakes and more pain. I bashed each shoulder into the ground. I rolled along every ridge of my spine. I even managed to get kicked in the head. I could not complain. The kicker was doing far more damage to herself than to me. And the kick gave me an excuse to stop and seek out a softer asphalt patch.
We rolled around all over the road, pausing only to allow the passage of Porsches, until our teacher broke into another run and took us to the base of a tall sandstone wall. Back-scraping had finished. It was time for our fronts.
We were shown how to reach up, hang from the wall and, with a full-body thrust, throw ourselves over. I hung from the wall and tried to drag myself up with my arms (wrong). When that failed, I cocked my left leg up onto the top of the wall (also wrong) and somehow hauled myself up with my leg. (Right outcome, at least.)
“I’ve never seen a first-timer do that before,” said the traceur. “Are you into rock climbing or something?”
“Yoga. Pilates. Sometimes Yogalates.”
It was time for ‘conditioning’. We did sit-ups and push-ups and more running and, at last, it was time for stretching, and questions. At last I could ask.
“Look, I’m a lawyer,” I said, puffing. “And I’ve been wondering. Do you ever have problems with the law?”
“The police are usually okay. It’s the security guards who cause trouble.”
It seems ‘trespass’ is the usual concern at the sight of someone climbing a wall.
“You might get hassled once in a while. But don’t worry about that.”
I liked the guy’s attitude. It reminded me of the kind of free-thinking about public space I see in activists and buskers and even some homeless people. I went home and took a long bath. My body hurt. Everything else felt a little more free.