Man, lemme tell ya, chasing the best urban parkour courses across the US has been my wildest ride this year, and I’m still kinda shocked I didn’t break my neck. I’m writing this at 2 a.m. in my Brooklyn apartment, curtains open, streetlights buzzing outside, my left ankle wrapped in a janky ice pack ‘cause I tweaked it yesterday trying to “stick” a landing on a curb. Typical. Six months ago, I was just some dude in sweatpants, scrolling X, drooling over parkour vids while eating leftover pizza. Then one night, after a shitty day—spilled coffee on my laptop, got ghosted by a Tinder date—I said screw it and signed up for a class. Biggest mistake? Best decision? Still figuring that out, but here’s my hot mess of a journey through urban parkour classes. Buckle up.
Why I Even Tried the Best Urban Parkour Courses (Blame Boredom)
Okay, so I’m 31, my knees sound like Rice Krispies, and I’m no athlete. But watching some rando flip off a wall in a YouTube vid hit me like a brick. I was done feeling like a blob. Googled “parkour gyms near me” at 3 a.m., found Tempest Academy, and signed up before I could chicken out. First class? Showed up in old Nikes, tripped on a mat, and face-planted so hard the coach thought I was drunk. I wasn’t. Just clumsy. Laughed it off, then cried in my car. But I went back. Urban parkour training don’t care about your feelings—it just dares you to keep going.
Tempest Academy, NYC: Falling Hard, Loving Harder
Red Hook warehouse, smells like sweat and regret. Perfect for beginner parkour training. They start you easy—vaulting foam blocks, rolling on mats that smell like feet. My first win? A wobbly kong vault. Felt like I won the Super Bowl. Then I tried it on a real ledge and ate pavement so bad my teeth rattled. Coach Jax just shrugged, “Keep moving, bro.” Check their site for evening classes; they’re lit.
- Vibe: Half kids who skate, half burnouts like me chasing a spark.
- Dumbest fail: Tried to “style” a vault for a vid. Ripped my shorts. Mooned the class. Never again.
- Why it’s dope: You’ll feel like a superhero, even when you’re limping.
Mission Control, LA: Dust, Heat, and Near-Death Vibes
Went to LA last month, crashing on a buddy’s couch in Echo Park, running from a breakup and too many IPA regrets. Found Mission Control in a dusty lot that looked like a Mad Max set. 90 degrees, no shade, just fences and barrels. Tried a cat leap, caught my foot, landed on my ass so hard I saw my future flash by. Coach Rico just laughed, “Solid 6/10.” I’m still mad. $200 for 10 sessions, all outdoor, bring sunscreen or fry. I cried again when I stuck a 360—part joy, part “why am I like this?”
Apex Movement, Chicago: Windy City, Windier Ego
Chicago last spring was a mistake. Wind so bad it felt personal. Apex Movement runs city thrill-seeking spots on the lakefront—rails, benches, slick concrete. Showed up after too much pizza, tried a tic-tac, slipped, and bled through my jeans. Coach just said, “Chicago welcomes you.” Savage. $120 for 6 classes, all about flow and not dying. I pulled a muscle ‘cause I skipped stretching. Don’t be me.
Gear I Swear By (And Stuff I Wasted Cash On)
- Shoes: Salomon Speedcross, $130. Grippy as hell. Saved my ankles.
- Tape: Cheap athletic tape for fingers. Didn’t use it once, now my hands look like roadkill.
- Shorts: Tight ones. Learned the hard way after flashing everyone.
- Skip: Fancy $50 parkour gloves. Useless. Chalk’s cheaper.
Packed a whole-ass first-aid kit once. Never used it. Did use a napkin from a taco truck to stop bleeding. Classic me.
Wrapping This Chaos Up
I’m trash at parkour. Still. But I can clear a bench now without crying, so that’s something. The best urban parkour courses didn’t make me a pro—they made me show up, bruised, sweaty, laughing at my own dumb self. NYC’s warehouses, LA’s dusty lots, Chicago’s windy rails—they’re my therapy, my middle finger to being “just fine.” If you’re bored, stuck, or just wanna feel alive, find a class. Fall. Laugh. Repeat.
Yo, what’s your excuse? Hit up a parkour gym near you, eat some pavement, and tell me about it below. I’ll roast your fails and cheer your wins. Let’s get messy.
Note: I might’ve typo’d some shit. I’m human, not a robot. Deal with it.
