The tone was set early. Martin Clarke, 47 years old, stepped up to the wall. He sprinted in, launched up and over the rail, and came agonizingly close on his first attempt. The crowd held its breath. On his second try, he made it clean — the place erupted. His joy was contagious, and suddenly wave after wave of people were lining up to have a go.
From the sidelines, you could feel the mix of nerves, hype, and raw determination. Seasoned Big Wall names like Ed Scott and Joe Scandrett prepped for their sends, while pockets of athletes psyched themselves up, feeding off the energy. For me, it was the mix of old friends and new faces that tipped me over the edge. After a few minutes of catching up, we’d convinced each other to send challenges I never would’ve tried on my own. I left that day with a new level of confidence, pushed higher simply by being part of the moment.
What struck me most, though, was how much bigger the event was than a single wall. Storror has become an institution. Yes, they put on a competition — but they also built a space where everyone could belong. If you weren’t climbing the wall, you could play the video game, pick up some clothes, join the hackey sack comp, or just hang out and watch. Fans who don’t even train parkour could still feel connected and welcomed into the culture.
That’s rare. In a sport that often feels underground or invisible, Storror created a stage not just for athletes, but for the public to see what parkour really is — movement, creativity, community. The Big Wall Open wasn’t just about sends. It was about showing the world the energy, joy, and culture behind them.
And that’s why I’ll be back next year — not just to watch, but to be part of it.
