Liverpool is quiet, fair-weather traceurs discouraged by the threatening gloom. My enthusiasm, struggling like the weak sunshine, is trying to fight its way through the dull fug in my head. We trundle around the spots we know and find a fair bit to do but we have to search for it. The huge and imposing buildings promise so much but actually yield little for parkour. I know there is a lot of stuff here but we could do with some guides to show us the best spots.
I miss Liverpool. My City. It has and always will be a part of me. Every building and park holds tons of memories from when I was growing up, like a photo-album in my mind. An adult’s eyes may admire the magnificent architecture of the art galleries, the flowing lines of St George’s Hall, the eye-catching St John’s Tower: the hard-earned fruits of hundreds of years of culture. Today, all I see are lots of great walls for us to jump off, gaps to hurtle through, leaps to attempt. The sun breaks out from the clouds and that smile appears on my face. I’m home – for today.
On the periphery of my vision, I notice that we are attracting a bit of attention. Kids, of no more than maybe eleven or twelve, keep popping up and scurrying around. Again the same faces, off at a distance, watching furtively what we are doing and trying to copy. This is not good. They are clambering onto things we would not attempt, with little thought for their own safety, invoking the wrath of security guards who have to interrupt their mid-morning snooze to chase them away. Please don’t let them think they’re with us. They get brave and, like little pigeons used to being fed, they wearily approach us bit by bit. They’re obviously accustomed to seeing people jumping around in town. “Can you do flips?” Hmm. Not the thing you should ask us. I opt not to get into the whole argument about how parkour and free-running are not the same thing. They persist but, realising that we are not going to oblige, eventually get the message and hop off. Keen to move on ourselves, we bomb-burst and make a break for the Wirral by train and car.
We head under the Mersey to Moreton where we are to meet others of our group. Jak, Fred and Katie (their mum) are at a disused cricket pavilion on an old sports pitch. There are several unfamiliar faces here, too, but introductions quickly turn them into new-found friends. If you do parkour, you’re one of us. It’s a nice feeling, a bond instinctively shared. We are on their patch and they know it like the back of their hands, and are keen to show us the best places to train. And there are plenty. As we wander around the place we realise that it is alive with parkour. And with those who do it.
Although it’s been around a fair few years now, parkour and free-running are still low-key activities, coming in under the radar of most people. The media has got a hold of PK lately and seem to be trying to push it to prominence, but there are still relatively few people who practise it. It’s origins lie in France but the UK has developed a few stars of its own.
Daniel Ilabaca is somewhat of a celebrity in his hometown. Although only nineteen, he is a natural traceur with the outlook of a man many years older. Living proof of what training, pushing and believing in yourself can achieve. He manages to find work as a stunt-man in films and is training as one of the country’s first qualified parkour coaches. Rather than cause trouble, as many idle youths will when there is little to do, there are groups of lads who have looked at Danny’s example and are trying to emulate him. Instead of hanging around on street corners intimidating old ladies, they train in parks and on the streets. They’re learning about themselves and, in turn, teaching others. It is amazing to see.
We try some jumps next to a school in the village itself and are a little alarmed to see two Community Service Officers hurtling up the street towards a couple of our friends. As far as I can see, they are not doing anything dangerous or damaging but we are used to other people getting a little edgy when we train. It sometimes looks like we might be up to no good, but a little cool-headed explanation usually changes minds and mind-sets. They get their notebooks out and it is all looking bad. I quickly cross over the road to see if I can help and I engage the two officers in conversation. They are very helpful. In fact – to our astonishment – they go even a step further. She explains that they know all about Danny and what he does. If someone could arrange to come down to the station in the near future, they would like to discuss the possibility of providing funding for some training facilities. I’m flabbergasted – I thought they were going to give us a ticket and a fine for some trumped up charge. I am filled with respect.
When we get back to the pavilion Chris, Danny’s brother, has arranged for a crash-mat and already other traceurs are descending on it. Literally. They’re throwing themselves off the roof, sailing in graceful summersaults onto the floor below. Impressive, but nothing more than fun. One day, maybe.
An invitation arrives to come train in Danny’s back-garden. It’s not what I expect. Our group of ten tag onto a training session already in progress. His small garden is already teeming with people: several generations of Ilabaca family are there; Danny and his friends are hanging monkey-like from the branches of a tree which supports a huge tree-house; lads are swinging from some home-made scaffolding. It is a hive of purposeful activity.
Danny is happy to meet us and a flurry of introductions are quickly made. Before long, we are being put through our paces. Strength-training, bottle-testing, confidence-building, adrenaline-pumping action. Under Danny’s watchful eye we attempt the unthinkable. We are encouraged and inspired.
Thoroughly warmed up, we move out into Moreton and the grounds of an old church where we can do more conventional parkour. But before long, the day has fled. It’s getting late and we have a journey back to Manchester still to do. We’re not finished yet, though. We subject ourselves to a vigorous warm-down which seems every bit as energetic as the training we’ve just been doing.
With legs as heavy as lead, and minds floating on our own personal clouds, we cram ourselves back into the car and make our way home to Manchester.