The philosophy of physicality

Not a lot happens on Sunday afternoons at Sacramento State University. The parking lots here are vacant expanses of concrete. The shady paths between lecture halls are empty, except for the occasional squirrel. The outdoor theater near the library is a virtual Zen garden of tranquility—until members of the NorCal Parkour group leap and vault into the scene like a pack of sweat-suited ninjas.

What most would see as a simple concrete quad becomes an urban jungle gym for those in NCPK. Sweaty young men vault repeatedly over a waist-high wall. Two teenagers practice wall runs, gripping a metal bike rack to brace their upward trajectory. Another descends a staircase on his hands, scuffed tennis shoes waving in the air, while a young woman weaves her body over and under metal railings with surprising agility.

Parkour is the art of creatively and efficiently surmounting obstacles in one’s path by using only the body and the immediate environment. The sport is freestyle, creatively athletic, and gaining momentum throughout Sacramento and the country.

And empty campuses—packed with challenging obstacles such as stairs, benches and railings—are magnets for NCPK athletes. Since its inception the group has conquered Sacramento State three times on its weekly Sunday jams, as well as UC Davis, American River College, and a number of high schools and middle schools.

Ted Uhrich, a 28-year-old massage therapist, started NorCal Parkour in March. Inspired by YouTube videos and the Japanese game show Ninja Warrior, Uhrich taught himself basics with online tutorials and found himself eager to build a community.

NorCal Parkour has since evolved into a group of several dozen athletes, ranging in ages from 7 to 46, who meet every Sunday for five-hour workouts.

Uhrich laughs at the suggestion that five hours is a long time to exercise.

“If we were Indian tribesman, we’d be out running in the forest, doing this all day,” Uhrich says.

Luckily for aspiring tribesmen, regional parkour gatherings are multiplying. In less than a year, NCPK has grown to encompass weekly satellite jams in Davis, Chico, Galt and Paradise; as well as semi-regular field trips to San Francisco jams.

Parkour began as a military survival strategy in France, and has since become a global recreational pastime. So far, the sport has spawned two seasons of MTV’s Ultimate Parkour Challenge, stunt sequences in Hollywood blockbusters such as Casino Royale and Prince of Persia, and a growing number of parkour-specific clothing lines and training websites.

Practitioners of parkour, called traceurs, generally subscribe to one of two philosophies. Original military parkour, studied by the U.S. Marine Corps and the British Royal Marines, emphasizes efficiency of movement—namely how to scale obstacles in the fastest possible time to evade enemies. The second school of thought, called freerunning, celebrates creativity in movement. Freerunners look for different ways to interact with their environment—and what kind of fun might be had in the process.

NCPK prefers to blend the two ideologies. Bryan Jenks, a 19-year-old NCPK traceur, puts it this way:

“We like creative ways to be efficient.”

Brandon “Zeke” Driscoll, 20, leans more toward freerunning.

“Freerunning is outdoor gymnastics,” he says. “As long as you land on your feet and not your face, you’re pretty much fine.”

That philosophy, along with comfortable clothes and a good pair of sneakers, is all a beginner needs. Weekly NCPK jams are open to everyone and happen year-round, rain or shine.

Although he founded the group, Uhrich resists being labeled the leader.

“There are some groups with one teacher,” Uhrich explains, “and after they grow beyond 15 members, it’s chaos.”

As such, everyone here acts as student and teacher, trading moves as soon as they master them.

On this afternoon at Sac State, NCPK is joined by the Concrete Kings, a handful of high-school freshman traceurs from Galt.

“We invited them to join us, because we wanted to teach them responsibility,” Uhrich says. “Young kids have a tendency to get on roofs.”

NCPK is firmly against scaling buildings. It insists members play it safe to reduce the risk of injury and avoid being ousted by the police. The efficacy of this policy becomes evident when the group is asked about its collective injuries.

Dutifully, they point to small bruises on their legs, and minor scrapes on hands and elbows. Driscoll recalls that he once tore a callous off his palm.

But ironically, just as Uhrich is espousing the importance of safety, one of the Concrete Kings scales a small arbor and begins walking on its roof, arms held out in a shaky attempt at balance. Immediately, the group shouts at him to get down, which he does with a sheepish smirk.

“That’s how we get booted!” Uhrich yells.

Marlena Cravey, the only female traceur present today, rolls her eyes.

“Obviously, he’s new,” she says, after making sure the novice is back on solid ground.

The sport includes some fundamental moves, but at this early stage in its global popularity, even the basics are continually modified. This lack of formal structure is one of the things that attract athletes.

“It’s still young enough that we can generate our own moves. One of these kids just asked me to show him the ax vault,” Uhrich says, referring to his custom vault style of kicking up both legs in a move reminiscent of a tae kwon do ax kick.

In these burgeoning days of what is largely improvised sport, NCPK seeks legitimacy. Uhrich posts weekly videos highlighting the group’s skills on the NCPK website, and many members carry business cards.

The cards, imprinted with the universal parkour motto “Be strong to be useful,” are key to maintaining access to the best public jam spots.

“When we hand out cards,” Driscoll says, “it makes us seem like more than stupid teenagers looking to break our legs.”

Driscoll recounts a time when a security officer approached the group at UC Davis and warned them that, if she saw them again, she’d be forced to kick them off campus. Driscoll gave her a business card, explained the activity and their commitment to safety. After watching their videos online, the officer returned and suggested a less-central campus location where the group could practice.

When they do get evicted by police, as happened recently at a park in Rocklin, the sports enthusiasts always leave without incident. At its core, parkour is about working in harmony with your environment to become a stronger person. Sometimes an obstacle is less concrete than a wall or a railing. It might be a defeatist police presence or even, as Uhrich points out in a rare philosophical moment, bleak future prospects.

“It’s like [Brad Pitt] says in Fight Club,” Uhrich says. “‘I see all this potential, and I see squandering. Goddamn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars.’”

“Do you want to do that or do you want to fly?” Uhrich asks the traceurs gathered in the amphitheater that day. “Everyone in this discipline that you know has the potential to be goddamn Spider-Man.”

Jenks laughs. “You’re starting to sound like a cultist,” he tells Uhrich dismissively, before executing a superhero vault to make Spider-Man proud.