Well, in the beginning – you know
Parkour, right? Also known as free running? It looks like this:
So I'd been watching these videos, and
I had two thoughts right away. I bet you had the same ones. First, it
looks like the most fun a person could possibly have; second, if I
tried to do anything of the sort, I'd come to humiliating grief
within ten seconds. It made me sad. I've never envied professional
athletes: that level of specialization seems joyless, industrial
even; and embarking on a career with such a short sharp arc seems
foolish. Who wants the peak of their life to happen at age 25? But I
envied these guys. Flying over rooftops and springing over rails –
oh, what fun! What sweet freedom! And such a playful relationship to
have with the physical world. Children have that relationship, but
adults mostly lose it. Imagine the world as these traceurs see it: a
playground of infinite possibilities!
Meanwhile, in my little house in
Portland, I was moping. We moved last year, further from the
downtown, where I work, and the miles that added to my commute
discouraged me, especially when the rains came. Riding my bike was
not fun anymore: it was a chore. I was doing it less and less often.
So there I was, feeling sorry for
myself. I read the CDC recommendations for exercise – which are
sharp and on the ball and exactly right, by the way! I was agreeably
surprised – anyway, I was reading these and wondering how I could
possibly work half an hour of exercise a day into my daily routine,
if I didn't commute by bicycle. There's no gym nearby, not that I
know of; not that I've ever much liked gyms. And I've always hated
running, all my life. So here I was, stuck. No way to exercise.
It was at this point that some spirit
borrowed from those soaring traceurs got a little irritated at me.
You have a half hour in front of you, it said impatiently. You have
the run of an entire little house, full of interesting obstacles, and
objects that can be climbed over or lifted. You have a handy body
weight of two hundred and some pounds to sling around. You're a
clever lad, with an embarrassment of academic degrees and all the
resources of the internet at hand. And you're telling me you can't
find a way to fill a half hour with exercise? Really? Really?
Something began to wake up. I got up
off the couch an embarked on my very first session of Wimp Parkour. I
trotted through the kitchen and down the two steps to the laundry
room. Laundry baskets on the floor! I sprang over them. A full three
yards to the bookcases. Quick turn! Back over the baskets! Up the
steps, back down the steps backwards, hopping back up. Back up to the
kitchen counter, jump up to sit on it, again, three times. See if I
can stretch to the ceiling. Dash back to the living room. Bear walk
to a plank, do a pushup – can I still do a pushup? Yes! – bear
walk back to a squat, and stand up. Sprint into the bedroom; shoulder
roll onto the bed. Yikes! Dizzy as all hell. Haven't tried going head
over heels for a while. Lie on the bed till the whirlies go away. Out
to the living room. Seize the arm chair and lift it over my head:
trot this way and that with it, swing it around a little. Imagine
I've tripped and drop to the floor. Practice getting up off the floor
without using my hands: back up, back down, back up, back down.
What's the hard part? That first lift from cross-legged to being on
one knee. Practice that, then. Up and down and up and down.
Within ten minutes I had exhausted
myself. I finished my half hour's exercise with twenty minutes' walk
around the neighborhood. I was happy. I was alive. My mountain-goat
mind was awake, looking at everything as something to skip over or
balance on. It was deeply, ridiculously gratifying.