What do you think about parkrun?
I don’t often think about parkrun. Recently, I heard snippets of a radio interview in which CEO of parkrun SA Bruce Fordyce was talking about the phenomenon. I was collecting new dumbbells and the seller wouldn’t stop talking so I missed quite a bit.
Fordyce is a sporting legend. I remember, as a boy, sitting with my parents in front of the old TV that had actual buttons you compressed and knobs that you turned. It was set in a wooden case that my father eventually cut by a third to fit into a modern 1980s wall unit.
It feels like yesterday: 1988, Fordyce in a league of his own, with Nick Bester and Mark Page battling to see would be the next best. I liked Bester when I was young because on TV his muscles always looked particularly strong and I was in the midst of a Bruce Lee obsession. Blood Sport was also released in 1998. The foundations of the modern day Water Cooler were built on a hodgepodge of varying athletic disciplines, something I hold on to.
I think I had a chance encounter with Fordyce once, though it could have been a case of mistaken identity. About a decade ago I ran into a Gautrain carriage when the doors were about to close (in a panic as there was a flight at stake) and in the breathless rush prevented Fordyce from exiting the carriage gracefully. He had a few choice words for me.
Of course, had I known I would be leaping into one of the best runners — across distances — this country has ever produced, I wouldn’t have jumped. I’d have waited on the platform for an autograph. In fairness, though, for him the moment was a chance encounter with the future legendary Water Cooler columnist. Had he known that, no doubt his words would have been even more harsh! If it wasn’t you Mr Fordyce, forgive the anecdote. I was out of breath from my down run.
Why don’t I think about parkrun all that much? Because I don’t partake in it. I have. Once, my partner and I were on a longer 15km run when we encountered a parkrun on the route we decided to take over Northcliff hill and through Albert Farm. We did the 5km with the diverse crowd and enjoyed it — dodging toddlers and dachshunds adds a particular flavour of agility to your training.
Parkrun started in October 2004 in the UK. With humble beginnings, it was called the Bushy Park Time Trial and had 13 runners and five volunteers. I was living there at the time but wasn’t running anywhere except to the local Fitness First gym to try to find an open piece of equipment before rush hour. Founder Paul Sinton-Hewitt went to Potchefstroom Boys High. Of course there’s an SA link in a great sporting story, should we be surprised?
According to the parkrun website, by the end of 2023, the 100-millionth instance of a parkrun took place globally, with 9-million registered parkrunners. That’s 2.5-million more people than voted for the ANC in 2024 and they are still pulling, or tangling and snapping, strings all around the country. Parkrun is huge. It’s like CrossFit or Hyrox, but, I’d argue, more accessible.
Though I don’t take part in parkrun, many in my family do and they enjoy it. It is a brilliant idea, and the best ideas outgrow their quirky origins. This is a movement with a purpose: it gets people outdoors to run and walk. It creates a sense of community. Importantly for SA, it gives you safety in numbers. We all know running or cycling alone is not always the best idea. It’s not fair but it’s true.
If you’re considering doing a parkrun, do it. It doesn’t matter if you do it in 30 minutes or an hour. You’ll walk or run in excess of 6,000 steps. I don’t get involved because I’m partaking in other sporting activities during parkrun events, but anyone who loves exercise would surely endorse something that gets people moving, at scale.
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