Parkour

‘You’ll never make it,’ I say to Tilde.

We’re standing on the roof of a building; she’s planning to jump to the next one. For the past six months, Tilde and I have been training in parkour. She’s pretty adroit, I have to admit but as I look at the chasm between the two buildings, I just don’t think it’s possible.

Tilde peeks over the edge, holds her breath. She glances at me; her face is twisted with emotion, which I can only guess is a combination of fear and adrenaline.

‘Nah, I can do this,’ she says. Her confidence in her ability to make this leap increases the doubt I feel in my own. I procrastinate while I watch her walk to the far edge of the rooftop. She stands, ready, breathing in and out with her eyes closed. Focussed. Cool. Determined. The very essence of self-belief.

I am hot and sweaty. My fingers are shaking. My heart is pounding so hard it’s hurting my ribs. Deep within, my core is twisted, like someone’s pulling on my bowels, shoving them into a new position inside my gut. I listen to my body: don’t do it.

‘It’s lower than this one by about five storeys. We’ve trained for this, Max. Let’s do it.’

Tilde runs. The muscles in her thighs undulate beneath her skin as she powers across the flat surface. With one swift movement, her right leg jumps up the brick wall and propels her with force over the gap.

I close my eyes.

A scream fills the air around me. With some humiliation, I come to understand it’s me. I screamed like a four-year-old girl as Tilde jumped.

I peek out from under my eyelids, full of fear and concern for my best friend. There’s a shadow, moving, on the roof of the next building. Squinting in the glare of the setting sun, I see it’s her. She’s made it.

‘Your turn Max!’

No way. I’m taking the lift down to street level.

Photo by Taylor on Unsplash