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A NEWLY DISCOVERED MOUNTAIN RANGE

Paris. The legendary capital of arts, romance, fashion and the human spirit. Arguably the world's most cultured and chic city, graced by the presence of the Notre Dame cathedral, the Louvre museum, the Eiffel Tower, and the Champs-Elysees — the world's most beautiful avenue, it is said. Well, at least by Frenchmen. Paris means so many things to so many people. It is also synonymous with social success, a place where dreams become reality, as Hollywood would be for cinema actors or London would be for musicians. The connection with climbing? None, except that the French capital marked the real birth of my urban escalations: my eureka moment was stumbled upon accidentally in the bend of a traffic jam on the Parisian ring road.

Leaving my native Drôme in south-eastern France and heading into the sprawl of Paris is inevitably a disorientating affair, the capital of any country being dramatically different to the land over which it rules. At the time, my recent escapade with Sector in Chicago was very fresh in my memory. The American newspapers were filled with the exploits of a French climber the journalists called 'Spiderman'. The trip had been an eye-opening diversion but for me it still remained an isolated incident. Despite the ultimate completion of this assignment I had to admit the experience had been a bit disturbing, as no one knew what the hell they were doing and by taking on something untried I could have been killed. I had gone out there with a set of assurances from Sector, which to be fair had tried to arrange things, but we had got into a bureaucratic mess which had ultimately resulted in my arrest! It was hardly what I was led to believe would happen. And on the building itself things could have easily gotten out of hand. Okay, the arrest had eventually turned out to be harmless, although very distressing at the time, but this is not something one seeks out. Indeed the experience had deterred me from attempting such an action ever again.

I was still like everyone else in the game, a rock climber scaling mountains and cliffs. Like Jibè Tribout I considered I had engaged in an advertising stunt, a one-off movie thing. The rocky cliffs and pillars of Utah had been my forte, I was right at home there. I had spent intoxicating days climbing in the gorgeous desert wilderness as well as a terrifying hour vaulting up a high rise building. Now it was back to reality, which for me was France and the cliffs here I love so much.

For several years, my solo cliff ascents had attracted the interest of professional photographers seeking dramatic and provoking images and this had led me to develop relationships with several journalists at Paris Match, one of France's leading weekly magazines. But as yet I was unable to support myself purely through my passion. I continued to work part- time in a small sports store in my native Valence, with little climbing stunts for several sponsors allowing me to make ends meet.

This particular day, my car was immobilised in the droning fumes of the Paris ring road. Disc jockeys did their best to entertain the scores of thousands of bored Parisian drivers caught in an endless shuffle of metal and rubber. Tired, I cast my eye over the city skyline. For some unknown reason, two enormous towers drew my attention, fertilizing my imagination. These glass arrows dominating the cityscape became majestic spurs. Climbers would leave towns or cities like this to tackle the most distant rocky or icy summits. Then it struck me — why not try to climb these urban mountains? The most impressive natural summit, protected by vertical walls and ice slides and shielded by horrendous climatic conditions, nevertheless has its weakness, its Achilles' heel. The solution is founded upon discovering this weakness. Once you have uncovered it you may open up a logical path upwards along the most evident route to the summit. And then, when one is ready, and presuming one hasn't used up too many lives, one increases the challenge by looking for the most audacious passages. By adopting such a state of mind, simple office blocks were suddenly transformed into Himalayan summits.

It was quite a revelation. My whole life I had seen such buildings as dwellings, manifestations of a giant replicate interior. I had never stopped to ponder the exterior other than recognising it as a shell required to keep everything from falling out. Late in the afternoon, sat in gridlock a kilometre away from the gargantuan twin forms, buildings I would later learn were named the Mercuriales Towers, my eyes grow wide. And then I look around. Other forms, other buildings, endless miles of them! Everything is here. A whole city! The city is many things to many people, but for me, right now, it is a total revelation. It is a newly discovered mountain range.

The next day, I head to the Champs-Elysées to visit the editorial staff of Paris Match. My proposed project? The escalation of the Mercuriales Towers. And since it is my speciality I will go solo — without ropes. Is this just a pipe dream? I'm not sure. But maybe the journalists will be interested, so I reveal my vision.

We get chatting and they like the idea a lot, and straight away propose the Eiffel Tower instead. The Eiffel Tower, that iconic symbol of France, has already been climbed early in the 20th century by a team led by Pierre Allain. But for the magazine journalists, guided by a motto along the lines of 'the weight of words, the shock of photos', the Mercuriales seem very flat. To these guys they seem two-dimensional, perhaps in terms of visual appearance and relief but also in terms of their aura and persona. The magazine looks for the visually spectacular while I need real challenges in term of escalation.

In the course of our animated discussion, a host of potential projects takes over the desk, some more interesting than others. Soon it is clear there is no single building that can satisfy all agendas. Bit by bit, the so- called 'Tour of Paris by Façades' takes shape. We come up with a whole host of buildings across the city and decide that I will attempt to climb as many of these famous landmarks as I can. Paris Match undertakes to involve the media through the press agency Gamma, a company I have enjoyed a lot of cooperation with from my earliest rock-climbing days. Without really knowing what I am doing, or even considering the judicial risks ahead, I calculate I have the financial means to attempt the project. The Tour of Paris needs research and organisation but it will go ahead. I am going to climb some buildings!

Suddenly things start happening. Whilst Paris Match and Gamma are helping to put the Tour of Paris together my phone rings again. After our success in America, Sector have got hold of me again and tell me about their ambition to film the escalation of a high rise building in France.

Until recently, I thought skyscrapers could only be found in North America. But since I set eyes on the Mercuriales and bounced ideas off Paris Match I am suddenly seeing new possibilities. The Mercuriales really appeal to me in spite of their comparatively weak dimensions. I learn that since my first escalation in Chicago, Sector has coincidentally been thinking of bigger challenges, thinking of skyscrapers in Paris. It is as if something new has just been born.

Like most European cities Paris is pretty flat, with proportionately little modern high rise architecture, but the business district of La Déefense in the western quarter breaks with the rest of the city and is the obvious choice. Apart from Le Grande Arche, a third-millennium cuboid salute to the Arc de Triomphe, I do not know much about the buildings in the area. A visit is imperative so it is back to the ring road and I point my car west. Little by little, aerial silhouettes emerge then come into sharp focus. In La Defense I park my car and head out to explore. I turn a corner and then on the square right in front of me. Utter shock! A bold glass skyscraper of approximately 200 metres, the highest I have ever seen in France: Le Tour Elf, the Elf Aquitaine Tower. What an amazing sight! The Mercuriales suddenly take a back seat and the Elf Tower pushes its way onto centre stage.

At a good distance from the objective, the ElfTower remains a tower of Babel, mysterious and inaccessible. Before America I would have attacked the whole thing very differently. But with my Chicago experience under my belt, I am able to consider an escalation in a whole new way. I make a conscious effort to penetrate its defences and track down its weakness. I have a bunch of ideas but right now there is no way for me to be sure of the feasibility of scaling this awesome structure. I take photos of the Elf Tower and some of the surrounding buildings for Sector and Paris Match. Full of beans I look at the tower again, like a child in a candy store. How will I get to the top of this jewel? There is no obvious way up it. Chicago was chosen due to the fact it was a climbable structure, but Elf has been chosen purely because I like the look of it.

Sincerely, I do not really remember what fascinated me the most that day — the absolute beauty of the buildings or being thunderstruck by this new perspective of escalation. Maybe both, because without a shadow of a doubt, climbing the Elf Tower would be a massive and irreversible step.

Sector seems openly excited and motivated by the project. So am I, even if I still do not know what I intend to do about it. Once, twice, ten times, I return there, to study the towering structure, to restudy and reconsider it, and try to locate the keystone. I muse over numerous equations which will lead me to its summit. A possible answer? There is a crack, a narrow fissure which as far as I can see runs all the way up the building. I measure its width and its depth with my fingers to determine where I can wrap bandage protection for my fingers. I observe the structure with binoculars and try to imagine the full range of scenarios. I am racked with doubt. I realise that by attempting Elf, I am playing in a field which I have not mastered. Am I falling in love? Am I going to cheat on my loyal cliffs for a new concrete and glass mistress? If Chicago was only a reckless one night stand, when I look at the Elf Tower I feel deeply agitated. I am charmed...

Once I have got my hands on the architectural blueprints and analysed them, I discover a problem. How do I get onto the roof? Are there any grips at the top that will enable me to complete the climb? Flapping and rustling the papers I find nothing and feel less than convinced about the achievability of the ascent. Being faced with two metres of building face without the slightest blemish or ridge when stuck in a nasty posture is bad enough, but at the end of a tiring climb this would be a real problem. I would be too engaged by this point to hope to come down again. Two metres! A trifling, piffling, insignificant distance but it could cost me dearly.

I cannot risk the ascent without a better look, so through friends — and thanks to a little stratagem impossible to describe here because it is rather illegal — I have the chance to gaze at my temptress through the window of a helicopter. The air over Paris is subject to severe control legislation. But it doesn't matter, and I grasp this timely snippet of fortune that comes my way. A helicopter trip will allow me to confront my doubts even if the dynamic viewpoint has the effect of multiplying my emotions. Space can only be understood from the summit. Curiously, a pair of binoculars may bring you even closer than a helicopter but you see more detail, you feel more detail when physically elevated.

I hover close to the summit of the tower not far below our spinning blades. The sense of height transcends me and helps me to sublimate my ambition. Overcoming difficulties and the unpredictable has always been a tremendous passion in my life. The proximity to my temptress affects me even more. Resistance is futile. The Elf Tower playfully reveals a little more of herself and seduces me. I must climb her. I must.

My strategy is laid out and before long the day of the climb arrives. Opposite is the Gambetta Tower, a 37-storey block of flats deprived of a police contingent which gives Sector's cameramen the location they need to bed down comfortably and securely. Sector wants a series of dramatic shots so we have a helicopter ready complete with cameraman and photographer. The helicopter is not really supposed to be there, so it has to fly around for half an hour after the beginning of the operation, and then swoop in as if by chance.

This is it now: the research has been done, the preparation is in place and I have no more doubts. Except for one. I did not tell anybody my fears, being afraid that they may laugh at me. At the base of the Elf Tower is a fire station, and if the alarm is raised and word gets out that there is a man hanging off the side of the building, the response will be so quick that I fear I will not be able to escape the reach of their sizeable turntable ladder. I keep thinking of it over and over. The Parisian fire brigade, those honest and extremely fit professionals, will pluck me like a ripe fruit before I have managed fifty metres of escalation. Such a prospect appalls me. The only possible counter to this threat? Speed.

There is always a security presence in the financial district so I keep a low profile at the foot of the tower. There is quite a bit of camouflaged media around if you look closely. A photographer here, a cameraman there. Not to be unmasked, I enter the square of La Defense dressed in overalls I borrowed from my sister, who happens to be a decorator. My footsteps make a rather perplexing crunching sound. Why? Under my slippers, adhesive strips protect the soles from the contaminating dirt of the ground, and these can be peeled off very quickly when I start.

A glance to the left, to the right... Everything is quiet. I rip off the strips, irrationally nervous that the tearing sound may spur the fire brigade into action. Restless, I begin my ascent. In my haste, my feet slip and slide pitifully and continuously and I grope and fumble as I cannot find good finger grips. I am totally vulnerable and begin to sweat. And I am not the only one: with all my floundering and skidding my pensive family is also wondering if I am in control of my movements. My wife Nicole, who is about to give birth to our third son, gets tired of the sight of this distressing spectacle. I guess it is understandable — how many heavily pregnant women would want to see their husband behaving in such a manner? After some involuntary Inspector Clouseau impersonations I eventually get away and start making progress up the building.

For Nicole, as well as for me, this is all new. This novel experience of a building escalation is entirely different from climbing a cliff. On the square of La Défense, Nicole is much more afraid than during my other solo ascents, even though she has already seen me in some rather tricky positions. Thankfully the fire brigade has not yet moved. Looking back, I realise that I must have been very inexperienced then to believe that a ladder would have appeared out of nowhere and I would have been 'rescued' by a tough fireman. After a few minutes pulsing with adrenalinee I have clumsily raced halfway towards the summit and Nicole decides to waddle into the shopping centre to sit down. I don't think she is enjoying it very much. While I maintain my assault a friend jogs to and fro to inform her of my progress.

Soon I start losing my bearings. The multitude of mirrors all around makes me dizzy and disorientates me. My vertigo kicks in and I fight to regain my wits. I feel lost in a vertical labyrinth. The escalation is certainly challenging and it is more physical than I expected. Breathless, I try to rest and cool down by propping my shoulder against the building and letting each arm hang alternately. The technique is effective and helps me regain my strength. While recuperating I also consider the poetic element of the escalation. If it weren't for the fact that the authorities were due to give me a yellow card, I would choose to climb this tower again and follow a spiral route to prolong the escalation, prolong the pleasure. Structures of course rarely allow such a whim but now I realise the potential of this building. By attacking directly and rapidly due to my excitement on the square, I have wasted this project. I have rushed it, just as when we sprint up a cliff way too quickly to the detriment of artistic style, or wolf down a fine meal. For sure, success matters but so does the beauty of the gesture itself. The helicopter crew, misled by my erroneous estimation of my completion time, has missed most of the climb but arrives just in time to film my last movements.

Scaling the Elf Tower has taken me just 21 minutes. I overcome the final two metres I had previously worried about to reach the summit. As it turns out, fortunately there were grips. The fire brigade, finally there on the roof, are accompanied by the security services. And amongst the crowd at the top is the CEO of the multinational oil company, Monsieur Loïk Le Floch-Prigent himself. He steps forward in his grey suit, immaculately dressed and groomed, and the group parts to let him through.

Le Floch-Prigent walks up to me stiffly.

"Why did you not ask for a licence?" he bellows.

"Because you would not have given it to me," I say laconically. His eyes bulge.

"That's right!" he fumes, beside himself with fury.

I shrug. Until proven otherwise, I did not damage his high rise, nor make a naughty splash on the square below. In addition, I am polite, non-violent and a professional rock climber responsible for my actions. His disdainful, contemptuous attitude begins to irritate me. He walks up and down as if we should tremble in his presence, hands behind his back and his nose to the sky. His eyes are aflame as he glares down his nose at me. I tell him with barely masked irony that there is no sign forbidding escalation at the foot of the building. A few stifled sniggers come from the direction of the firemen. That does it. For him, enough is enough. Dramatically raising his arms towards the sky, he vows to take me apart in court and then storms off as if he had just delivered the cliff-hanger line in a corny soap opera.

How curious — the air of Paris seems a bit clearer now. The reaction of the policemen and firemen is radically different to that of the CEO and fills me with confidence. There is no disproportionate deployment of cops as in Chicago. With an almost collusive smile, the chief fireman quietly tells me that during fire drills, it takes them much longer to reach the summit by the stairs than I did by the façade.

At the police station, our whole team is there. Everybody has been arrested for a routine interrogation by the cops, and I learn that within that briefest of periods Elf has already pressed charges! Le Floch-Prigent did not waste time. My case turns out to be a little more delicate than it does for the others, who are immediately freed. It appears that I must be detained a little longer. I am taken to a glum cell and flop onto a bench. Exhausted by the day's events and post-adrenaline rush, I sink into a mildly addled sleep. In my slumber I turn over and crash onto the cold floor in front of two swaying drunkards and a sour-looking prostitute. Already relaxed with me, the police guards guffaw as I am startled awake into that horrible twilight confusion and alarm when you don't know where you are. It is much worse when you awaken in such surroundings and with such an audience.

Late in the afternoon, I am freed from detention. But it is not yet time to say au revoir to the authorities as I have to return for a meeting in court. By the evening, the media machine has really got carried away. TF1,

France 2, France 3, all the television news channels tell of the ascent of the Elf Tower! They show my progress up the showpiece of vertical La Defense, our Parisian Manhattan. It is no exaggeration to say that these news bulletins mark a change in my life. Things will never, ever be the same again for Alain Robert.

Over the following days, my brand new celebrity status opens doors to the hippest places of the city. For the countryside guy I am, this is a bitter discovery. People who yesterday would not have even looked at me now hug me as if we had collected peaches together in Valence. I learn about segregation within our society, about special clubs where it is necessary, it is said, to go and be seen. But why? For me, drinking a beer with pals should not be about ending up in the pages of gossip magazines. I am not taken with this outlook on life or the artificial friendships it entails. Fortunately, I am not that kind of guy.

In court I am under attack by the mighty oil conglomerate. It's Elf versus me, hardly an even fight, and I am totally out of my depth. My sponsor Sector is not involved in legal proceedings, despite having asked me to take the same risks as in my Chicago ascent. In Chicago I was simply dismissed but here I am in a courtroom, assailed by a multinational. I am on my own and have no idea what is going to happen.

The trial opens with a pleasant surprise: the Public Prosecutor's Department, preoccupied with far more important cases, have looked into the whole affair and have decided that I have not broken any laws. It appears that I have done something new — no one has ever stood before a judge for having clambered up a building. The bottom line is that no law has been passed to stop rock climbers or anyone else scaling public buildings. The courts declare they have more important things to do and will not prosecute me. In a matter of minutes it is all over. Elf have lost!

I leave the courtroom in jubilation with my friends. I can't believe it. Huge smiles, big hugs and slaps on the back, it's a great moment. But soon I discover that Elf's CEO is really upset by this turn of events — so much so he has instructed a legal team to have me prosecuted at all costs. He will turn the full power of this state-owned oil giant against me for climbing his pretty tower, and he will pursue me relentlessly. Le Floch-Prigent is not going to let me go and will not rest until I am broken by the courts. His dramatic rooftop pledge still stands. Like Captain Ahab he will hunt me down and harpoon me like Moby Dick.

I am not too bothered about Elf, my life goes on. My lawyer draws up legal proceedings and sends me letters updating me on developments. But I have already boarded a plane for New York to appear in more material for the documentary I am making with Sector.

Travel is a new experience for me and I snap up the chance to see a little more of the world. Sector needs some fill-in footage so here I am in the Big Apple. It's an amazing place, vibrant, cosmopolitan and one of the true vertical cities of the world. There are so many incredible structures here: the monetary power of the twin towers of the World Trade Center, the classic façades of the Empire State Building, the architectural masterpiece of the Chrysler Building and of course the Statue of Liberty, which the French donated to the Americans in 1886. But alongside these sublime marvels of engineering, there are dozens of wonderful towers in New York. None of these fine courses are on my menu due to the legal problems we experienced in Chicago and Paris. My climb in Chicago did not lead to legal action but I was still embroiled in lots of horrible wrangling with Elf due to the impassioned vow of Le Floch-Prigent. Sector make it clear I am not supposed to do any illegal climbs this time. So we get some innocent footage together, a bunch of interviews and space fillers in US settings. The shooting is pleasant enough but it seems such a waste not to admire one of these buildings from an elevated close-up angle.

After wandering around close to my hotel I find a nice shop where they are selling some excellent snakeskin vests and jackets. I try a few on and admire myself in the mirror. Wonderful stuff, absolutely top notch. My wallet however cannot stretch to these lofty prices, so I ask the attendant if I can talk with the boss. After quite a long chat with him I manage to persuade him to sponsor me. Not for money of course, but if I climbed a building wearing one of his snakeskin vests with the name of his company printed on the back of it then I would get that nice green jacket he was otherwise selling for $5,000. The contract I signed with Sector for the No Limits documentary said that when I climb I must do so in their clothing. But personally I didn't fancy climbing in those ugly clothes; instead I would like to have some fun climbing in a nice snakeskin vest.

Of course when I later tell Sector's film crew what I am doing they are mad with me, especially the producer! Since they had sponsored me they felt that they should be able to control my climbing activity. I can see why they are not happy but I know that I am neither right nor wrong. I was not supposed to do another ascent for them and I wasn't doing one for them — this was my own one! It will be purely for fun, an ascent that I want to do and not one I have to do because someone else had chosen it on my behalf.

The shit hits the fan with Sector but I am comfortable with my decision. I am drawn to 101 Park Avenue, a shiny black towering building with an irregular footprint. Its angles interest me and I return several times, sometimes at night, to check it out and to quickly test a few movements. I am convinced I can climb it but still I am impressed — 200 metres straight upwards and as flat as a pancake. It is an awesome sight! Doing this alone is much better — I can choose the best buildings and prepare properly, I can set my own agenda and do not need to worry about paperwork, schedules or bullshit. I have artistic freedom of expression and do not need to worry about exterior personalities influencing fundamental parameters — these are all important things for a climber.

The owner of a restaurant in Greenwich presents me to a big bunch of journalists from the mainstream television news channels. They will all be present at the climb. For me all this attention is overwhelming. I am familiar with journalists and accustomed to the company of a photographer and even the odd film crew. But this looks like it will be quite something — a newsworthy event! Word gets out and finally the people at Sector surrender. They decide that obviously it makes sense for them to record additional footage if I am going up anyway. Sector will film me even though I will be in a lovely snakeskin vest promoting an apparel outlet rather than wearing their unappealing kit and promoting them. I guess it has been a difficult decision for them but I feel that I am better off handling this alone. Now that I am empowered, I feel excited rather than worried. Also, with the media in attendance, I feel a little more reassured — I imagine that with their presence, my chances of being jailed are slimmer.

The day of the climb arrives and I head to 101 Park Avenue in a yellow taxi. I am racked with nerves and on the verge of breaking down. Is it the size of the task ahead? For sure, this escalation is my toughest urban challenge to date, and only my third. I have no idea what lies ahead. So is this fear of the unknown? Or is it stage fright? For even now I have a microphone poking around under my nose. I see the eyes of the New York cabbie curiously watching the scene taking place in his rear view mirror. A journalist named Isabelle is interviewing me with forceful and melodramatic questions. I am really not in the mood — I desperately need some time to focus on my escalation. My fear must be showing because Isabelle, like any good journalist zeroing in on human misery and suffering, has the idea of asking me whether I am afraid. I am completely stressed at this moment and I start to cry! I am not sure whether I will still be alive in one or two hours from now, and that stupid question is just too much for me. The taxi driver has no idea what is going on as we approach a media circus with a merciless journalist prodding me with a microphone and me in tears. I realise this show is not going at all well — can you imagine if it fell apart and ended like this? What a terrible outcome!

I pull myself together and mop my face, now more determined than ever. The taxi stops and I fly out the door and run straight to the particular face I had previously planned to attack. I don't know if the taxi driver thinks I am trying to evade a fare but he must be surprised at what he sees. There is a huge bank of cameras and journalists waiting to interview me, but I am totally focussed and nothing can stop me! I plough through them and climb the first few metres of the building. A security guard, who no doubt thought these cameras were waiting for a VIP, suddenly realises what is actually happening. He is shouting like mad. But I have selected to climb the corner, and it proves to be a good choice as I have already scaled ten metres by the time he reaches where I left the pavement.

The cameras capture all the commotion as I pull away from the ground. My fear has gone and is replaced with exhilaration as I realise that I can do it. All I need to do is keep my rhythm and I will be able to reach the top. As I climb I look through the windows and see people stunned, amazed and leaping to their feet! Office workers take photos and gawp to the background din of the sirens of police cars and fire engines! It is completely surreal. I feel like a carefree bird and I really think I have found myself. No matter what the consequences, I will make it to the top!

As I pass every window all I can see is excitement and happiness. It's great. I feel like a showman with a loving audience. Maybe I am indeed a performer — perhaps I should go by the name of 'Snakeman'? Even though I am beginning to tire, I really am having buckets of fun! Climbing this hooded black tower in the centre of Manhattan is a breathtaking experience and the view is sublime.

Sometimes I look down and the people crowded around the building look like ants. I begin to take in the magnitude of what I am doing and am even starting to impress myself! Wow, I really am quite daring! I feel like my childhood heroes!

The top of the building isn't far away now and I am trying to keep a little stamina in reserve as I can feel my muscles tightening due to elevated levels of lactic acid. I hurry a little to make the top, and then a slip. and I nearly fall. Just one second of inattention and my foot slid out from beneath me — but the will to survive is strong, and fortunately my reflexes are highly tuned, and somehow I manage to grab a ledge with the very tips of my fingers to avoid catastrophe. It is a close call and reminds me that I have much to learn about the nature of the materials I am working with today. But thankfully I recover and catch my breath. Then I make one last move to surge towards the top. The wall of black gives way to blue — I make it!

As I pull myself over and plant my feet on the rooftop I see there are a lot of cops and security officials waiting for me, but I feel such immense joy that the prospect of being arrested and going to jail is not even the slightest issue. The moon could have exploded and I wouldn't have cared! I am so happy that my state of mind is nearly indescribable. I had climbed up 101 Park Avenue with my bare hands!

Why was I ecstatic about this climb rather than the two that preceded it? Maybe this monstrous tower, a building King Kong might also have climbed if he had stomped Manhattan today, implied a greater sense of achievement — or maybe it was because I didn't give a shit about sponsors or contracts or bureaucracy or limitations. Chicago had been disappointing in the sense that Sector was so frightened of getting caught, yet not concerned that I could be arrested and prosecuted. Paris had been the same story but it had turned out worse and now I had this high-profile corporate madman, Loïk Le Floch-Prigent, after me. Sector had some nice people and I was sad that they could not have supported me a little more. This solo done off my own back and on my own terms was an amazing experience and a liberation: it was what climbing was really about!

A few minutes later I have a nice pair of silver bracelets behind me and I am escorted off the roof and towards the elevators by dozens of cops. Some of them are cheerful, others are pissed off. Once the lift gets to the bottom — pandemonium! We exit the building to a voracious and enormous pack of media, pushing and shoving, filming, photographing, waving microphones and booms, crying out, desperate to get clips of my arrest! It is an incredible scene! I feel like I am in a movie, except of course everything is very real, the handcuffs and the rudeness of a few of the cops reminding me that this is no Hollywood red carpet.

We press through the media and push into the car. Flashes are going off in my face and I give a few of the guys a smile. Amid all the chaos I can just make out the crew from Sector, fighting a losing battle to get a scene for the documentary. The police car pulls away with lights spinning and sirens wailing, leaving the media whirlwind and Sector in our wake. I don't know much about what is going on or what is in store for me. This had to be more serious than Chicago, but I am quite confident I will be okay. This is the country of Uncle Sam, the country of freedom and liberty, right? Well, at least that's what I thought.

Ten minutes later I am at the police station where, to my surprise, everyone wants to see me. not the media — the cops! The reaction of the police seems positive and it looks like things aren't going to be too bad. Everybody is trying to communicate with me at once, but my English at this point is so bad that any discussion is very limited. I am led to a room and the door closes on the onlookers. I sit down at the stark desk as the cops pull out the paperwork. For the third time I am at a police station going through the same old formalities. Frontal and profile mugshots with my matriculation number, endless fingerprinting sessions and questioning as to how I ended up scaling the tower, my motivations and so forth. And of course the name of my father. It always perplexes me, this question — surely I am a big boy now? Cops jot down notes about my reasons for climbing 101 Park Avenue with either raised or furrowed eyebrows and I get the impression they don't understand me — not my crap English, but my philosophy.

I had originally felt quite optimistic about being released, but now I am being transferred to a big cell with several dozen prisoners. I'm not so convinced I will be freed so fast. It is past 7:00pm and, as I understand it, everyone must stand before a judge before being released or being transferred to a jailhouse, so it seems I am going to spend the night here! This would actually be my first night in a prison cell, my previous two arrests being followed soon after by a daytime release.

The bars slam behind me. I am the only bare-chested prisoner — apart from the snakeskin vest I am wearing with a company logo plastered all over the back. The guys are watching TV to pass the time and we are all wearing handcuffs, maybe so we can't fight each other, maybe as some sort of protocol. Unlike the events of several hours ago when I was in the middle of a maelstrom, here I am happily anonymous. It is a large cell but there isn't a great deal of space available for me to sit, given the number of prisoners. At one end of the cell is a public phone and everyone is using it for collect calls. Unfortunately I have no numbers and do not know who to call. Shortly after I enter, they bring us plates of toast with some cheddar on it. It is a truly ugly mechanical cheese, totally rubbery and synthetic, and of course a processed variety made in the USA. It always amazes me how the Americans tolerate such heinous cheese. But I guess this is a prison cell, not five-star luxury. We are not supposed to enjoy the experience. Maybe this star-spangled cheese is part of the punishment.

With no windows I am unable to gauge time and cannot tell if it is day or night. But by now I am starting to feel tired. The sizeable discharge of adrenaline has subsided, leaving my body heavy, empty, drained. Shattered and aching I attempt to sleep on a low bench, slightly away from the other prisoners. I have to sleep curled up in a foetal position because of hefty metal rings placed every metre, apparently for chaining us down if need be. After a period of restless dozing it is plain that I can't balance here and I lie down on the dirty concrete floor instead.

An hour later the prisoners wake me in an over-excited state. Blearily I retreat, wanting to keep away from any rioting or fighting. But as I come to, I realise these are full-blooded cheers and whoops of joy. The images of my ascent are all over CNN and ABC. By channel-hopping, a fellow inmate is able to show me being broadcast on several channels across the airwaves of America! Several big lads pull me to the TV, pointing and yelling wildly. My eyes open wide as I take in the images of myself 200 metres up 101 Park Avenue — I am on TV! In huge excitement they all scoop me up and carry me in triumph around the cell. I am tossed and thrown in the air by a crowd of howling maniacs in a New York jail. Images of my arrest amongst a media and police scrum are wildly cheered as I bob like a cork in a human sea. For the inmates it is a sort of victory, a win for us over them. I will never forget such a moment. It was surreal and very, very moving.

The guys treat me as a hero in there and I barely get a wink of sleep. When the morning comes I am parted from the guys with high fives and generous cheers, and swiftly brought before a judge.

It is immediately apparent that these people do not seem overjoyed to see me. Serious faces, uptight people, proper haircuts. The court settles and all eyes are on me. The charges are read out: criminal trespass, disorderly conduct, reckless endangerment. The judge leans forward and asks the lawyers a series of questions. They respond in turn. The judge frowns and pauses and removes his glasses. It is clear he is not quite sure what to make of it all. He leans forward and looks straight at me from under his bushy eyebrows, as a headmaster would a naughty pupil. He points the temple of his spectacles at me and tells me that the case will be dismissed if I promise not to do it again. My lawyer shoots me an eager look. In my simple English I humbly promise the judge I won't. The judge gives a satisfied nod and dismisses me. And that's it! I am free to go.

Soon I leave the courthouse to the Manhattan breeze, my heart racing, my spirits soaring. The last 24 hours have been a joyous voyage of personal discovery, an enlightenment you might say. I have never felt the way I did yesterday and I want to feel it again. However, I fully intend to keep my promise to the good judge. I resolve to keep my word and never climb 101 Park Avenue again.