2

LE TOUR DE PARIS

Ileave the United States buzzing from my climb and relieved with my good fortune. I got away with not so much as a fine — a real escape from New York. I return to Paris fresh and invigorated by my adventures. I had left France shortly after my court win over Elf, and thus had left my Parisian tour on the drawing board. But only a few days have lapsed since then and so I return to the Paris Match offices to pick up where we left off.

I exit the elevator to meet up with the journalists and am immediately greeted by big smiles. It seems they are aware of my high-profile success in America and are keen that I pursue my escalations here as soon as possible. Mesmerising potential targets once again fill the agenda. I can't wait.

Act 1: The National Library and the Mercuriales

After the Elf Tower ascent, Paris Match published an article on the inauguration of the final major construction project envisioned by the French president, Francois Mitterrand - the National Library. The building is structurally intact but not yet finished; there is much internal work to be done and quite a bit of time needed to achieve it. But I am told media interest is guaranteed with Mitterrand himself having recently inaugurated it. I accompany Paris Match to visit the site. I must say I am not charmed by these four symmetrical L-shaped buildings barely reaching 90 metres. They lack dimension, there is an absence of a real summit, their lines are nondescript - all in all they have nothing in common with a beautiful high rise building. My two partners, the magazine and the press agency Gamma, were enthusiastic at the beginning but are now sceptical regarding media interest in the escalation. But does it really matter? At the end of the day a climb is a climb. The way I see it, the National Library will allow me to pursue my challenge of a 'Tour of Paris by Façades'. And I like climbing. Why deprive me of earning my living in this way? There have been thousands of climbs during my career, and of course they were not all major ones. Far from it. Generally, when tackling a cliff, the rock climber initially exploits the most beautiful routes in his area, then, if he wishes to progress, widens his radius of action to other routes that are harder or less beautiful. Climbing rocks and climbing buildings of course cannot really be directly compared. Nature is a flood of chaotic mathematics quite different from the order of manmade structures. Nature does majestic things. If a line visually has no purity, it can however reveal some surprising movements, unexpected difficulties and generate some unforgettable experiences and enjoyment. And there are some manmade structures that approach this randomness, this uncertainty. The National Library doesn't really fall into this category - but its lines lack purity so I can probably learn a lot from them.

Again, gauging the activity at the location is imperative if this is going to work out. We eye up the construction site, which is hemmed in by a high fence. Hundreds of workers go about their business, trekking backwards and forwards across the mud to the overwhelming noise of machinery. As one would expect, the access points are strictly guarded by a group of sentries, and all in all about thirty security agents protect the complex. I seek an answer but there seems no obvious way to get past all this and then scale the building without getting caught. We must think laterally and hatch a plan.

We hit a bar and over a few drinks we brainstorm different ways to achieve our mission impossible. As the evening progresses we rule out many harebrained approaches and home in on the only realistic solution - the eternal male fascination with pretty girls. Whether we like it or not, men become totally irrational and ineffective when enchanted by an attractive woman.

Isabelle, an exceptionally good-looking friend, accompanies me to the National Library the next day. She is armed with an absolutely devastating miniskirt. Standing back from the entrance of the construction site, I watch her walk away, beautiful as an angel. Only three guards defend this door, not enough to resist my secret weapon.

Behind her glasses, a coy Isabelle plays hard. She looks just like the French actress Isabelle Adjani from the movie Fatal Summer. As an 'ardent admirer of architecture', she would like to get a little closer to this magnificent building, if only these charming young men would agree to accompany her. She twirls her hair and bats her lashes, tilts and totters on her high heels. This is the most exciting thing to happen to these guys for months and they are going crazy. And no wonder: her miniskirt seems even higher than one of my own escalations! Compare delightful Isabelle with the depressing catwalk within - drab overalls, fluorescent jackets, safety helmets and grubby wheelbarrows. The only skin bared is the hairy upper buttocks of grunting builders, an abhorrent sight and not something that a red-blooded Frenchman gets excited about. Isabelle has caused quite a stir and the guards are tripping over themselves to escort her around. No one wants to be left behind. All of them leave the gate and, as if by magic, the way is free.

Isabelle has trailblazed a huge gaping hole for me to exploit. I approach carefully and enter the site, cross the flight of steps and nip round the base of the library. It seems effectively okay for climbing but I cannot define which technique I need to use. It is impossible to try the slightest movement in my cowboy boots. Merde! I need my slippers and they are in the car. There are workers around me but everyone is on autopilot and nobody pays any attention to my presence. I check out the surroundings and there's still no one in front of the entrance. So I walk out naturally, whistling, then I come back and head towards the library again. This time guards are around and they immediately recognise me. Four monsters approach. I back off a little. it looks like it is not going to be my day.

But no! Pats on the back, laughter, autographs... I am totally taken aback by their friendliness and their cooperation. These smiling hulks seem proud that I am interested in the François Mitterrand Library and I thus pursue the visit in a very official way, as a VIP. I indicate to them that I have already spent quite a while outside the surrounding wall. Accompanied by my unexpected friends for the day I walk everywhere, and see the whole site - even the roof! This is immeasurably better than a simple stake-out or even the most successful covert inspection; this is a full conducted tour, with commentary and technical details. Only a slide show is missing to complete the picture! On top of all this, one of the guards desperately wants to take photos of the ascent. For me, the more madmen there are, the better. I explain the problems inherent in this kind of escalation. Structurally there are no major problems, but there is an environmental issue which concerns me - there is an ever-present cloud of airborne dust which settles in a thin film on the structure. It will be necessary to be vigilant - but with an army of vigilantes, I quip, for sure there is no need to worry. They enjoy a good laugh, a guard remains a regular guy regardless of the uniform. After a distribution of my signed picture postcards, I return to the agency, satisfied with my day. For once, the photographers will be able to take their images as they like and from where they like, allowing for artistic freedom and, one would guess, much better pictures. Gamma's staff sit up and take notice: this could be a story after all. On Saturday, the climb; on Wednesday I'll grace the pages of Paris Match. Good work!

On Saturday morning I arrive genially by car at the same front entrance I had sneaked through a few days before. I wish to park inside the surrounding wall in order to unload all the equipment belonging to the photographers, who this time number quite a few. Two large guards approach and tell me to get lost. I lower my car window, explain the situation and ask to speak to my pals inside. But it seems that I no longer have friends in there, even if certain faces are familiar. The National Library, still in a state of construction, has just been equipped with a vast network of security cameras. The guided tour I was given on my previous visit, complete with tips and a full photographic record of the site, was not appreciated by the security director who threatened to fire his employees ifI ever carried out my escalation project. In a country with more than five million unemployed, blackmail in the workplace is regrettably a commonplace reality.

Bewildered, I lose my usual sense of humour and do not know how to answer. If I get out of the car, they threaten to release their salivating Alsatians. I look into their eyes and realise it is useless trying to negotiate with them. I collide with walls thicker than those of the library. I reverse the car in a huff. I do not want to play any more. Not for the moment anyway.

The further I drive from the library, the madder I get. Did I really think I could rely on guards whose duty it is to prevent the kind of acts I like to commit? Really, this whole thing is my own fault. I have been way too naive!

I drive back towards the agency, in an almost deserted office district of Paris, but I cannot quite bring myself to ditch the project. At first I was not particularly motivated about climbing the National Library, but now I take it as a personal affair, as a matter of honour. My decision is made. Same guys. Same hour. Same project. Illegal version. My car turns around and heads back.

This time I take care to park a safe distance away. In another car, Gilles, a journalist from Paris Match, is on the watch. His job is to indicate to me the exact moment when the guards are as far as possible from the attack point of the building. This morning's escalation gets a little more complicated — I have to leap over a fence, run 100 metres, dash up the stairs of the square, sprint again for about 50 metres and then ascend the 90-metre walls of the National Library... all this while avoiding the clutches of the motivated and alert security guards. Rugby is not my favourite sport and the climb so far remains largely hypothetical.

Gilles waves at me from the car. It's my signal! I run to the fence, which is too high to jump over: I have to climb it. But because of my weight, it bends and flexes wildly, bowing back the wrong way. Confronted with this miserable spectacle, Gilles signals me to stop. Right now the exploit looks like more a charade. Imagine a guy reddened with exertion, suspended from a drunken fence creaking over the pavement of a Paris boulevard. It's not a scene that either he or I would want photographed. Few people would be impressed with this climbing episode.

I feel silly, this situation is ridiculous. I release myself from this elastic fence and retreat. And it's just as well, for the guards are patrolling again and we must wait once more. Ten minutes later, Gilles gestures to me that the way is free again. This time, I decide to climb the phone mast against which the barrier is anchored — then, without a sound, I pulverise the 100 metres world record. I navigate the stairs and make the home straight. But the cat is out of the bag! I don't look back but I am fully aware of the surrounding commotion and yelling. When I get to the base of the attack point and begin my first movements, the guards are only a dozen metres away from me. Sorry guys, no time to greet you. If you want to exchange pleasantries, the meeting is at the summit! I fly away. Luckily, thanks to their earlier kindness I know this building and the structure allows me to take off without losing a second. I am out of reach, safe. On the ground, the guards — who my ego has just put out of work — roar, scream and shout. Many of them tear off to intercept me at the top.

I climb steadily and easily with no hiccups or problems. The dust is a little slippery but nothing major. It's a pleasant climb and I gain more insights into city escalations. At the summit, a large contingent of security guards wait for me, faces like thunder. I don't think they are too happy to see me here today.

"Hey guys!" I say as I throw a leg over the top, "It looks like I am faster than you!" My attempt to calm the atmosphere seems to inflame it. I hardly end my sentence when I am almost floored by a punch. I try to stay on my feet as a rain of punches and kicks come down with a real street fighter edge. Rather than fly off the handle and try to play the superhero, I do my best to avoid the worst of it. Simultaneous punches coming in from opposite directions are the only things keeping me off the deck. They really mean it! It appears that I am in for a painful finale. But within a few seconds the cavalry arrives, better late than never, and police inspectors pull me out of this tight spot.

In front of the police, the guards are suddenly urbane and professional. They bow and relent. The police act swiftly. There has been a disturbance and I do not look like a law-abiding citizen right now. For the first time in France, the police handcuff me and frog-march me away. With the security guards abandoning their posts there is a good presence of television cameras on the square below. I am a little tender and dazed but I realise it all augurs well for a media success. It has worked. Paris Match, a genuine barometer of fame, will print a four-page spread on this visually dramatic episode. It's quite a scoop. The escalation of the National Library will serve as springboard to better, higher, bigger and more beautiful things. After Elf Aquitaine and the National Library, I really can seize the day.

At the police station, the inspectors remove my handcuffs. They tell me the move was necessary in order to calm the guards who, according to the police, would not be losing their jobs. Any blackmail would have been purely 'extra motivation' on the part of the security director. Of course they saw the hammering I received, and they ask if I want to press charges against the security services. They explain that if I do, I will have to go to hospital for a check-up, but since there are no visible marks or injuries it would be a bit difficult to pursue. I am not that bothered about the whole thing and tell them to forget about it. Amicably we leave it at that. They get on with the paperwork and leave me in my cell.

Later, as usual, I engage in a couple of exercises to pass the time. This catches the attention of one of the inspectors and triggers some good- natured competitive banter between us. He loves to work out and wants to outdo me. The inspector dashes into a series of drives on a door frame and looks satisfied with his performance. Sure, he is fit, but he can't match the ace up my sleeve: a beautiful perfectly horizontal board. I suspend myself from the door frame and draw my legs up so they are parallel to the floor. My whole body straightens out, completely horizontal, hence the name of the exercise. I hover there in a totally unnatural pose, suddenly resembling a madman afflicted by some sort of supernatural possession. I must admit that I find this exercise really difficult — it takes a big effort. Breathlessly I drop to the floor with a grin. This manoeuvre leaves the smiling inspector some work for years to come.

I am later released without any complications, free to pursue my next objective. Thanks to the success of the National Library ascent, an escalation of the Mercuriales Towers suddenly becomes much more interesting to the media. The images we achieved were well received by the public, and copies of the magazine sold well, of course the bottom line for the editor in chief. News teams are keen to find a nice story to slot in at the end of their bulletins. Regardless of external interest, the project is very important to me, I guess as a sort of pilgrimage. Since I do not wish to upset the guards again, I decide to ask the security officials for a licence to climb in these terms:

"With or without your agreement, I am going to climb the Mercuriales. If I can thoroughly inspect the building, if I can obtain technical information on the solidity of the structure or the hazards she may have, the ascent will go smoothly."

The security director decides to slip into the discussion that a part of the structure has just been redone because of solidity problems. However, he does not deign to tell me which face it is.

"Never mind," I maintain gaily, "I shall climb one of the faces at random." Nobody can prevent me from doing it. Considering the modest load I am going to impose upon the tower, the risks I flirt with are comparably tiny. Unless this modern tower is in terrible shape it is unlikely to shed panels so easily. The news is not especially welcome but it's not the end of the world. The security director of course has his own agenda and tells me that the building is dangerous. I tell him he should demolish it then. He shrugs and the meeting ends.

A ground inspection reveals that the building's exterior panels are hung on only by hooks, as on the Grande Arche of La Défense, but the solidity of the tower is doubtless.

Go! I vault up the Mercuriales. The security director obviously did not take me seriously. Too bad. Curiously, the guards seem very open-minded — none of them give chase and they even let a photographer work on the rooftop. The window frames are only clipped on to the structure and are not very sturdy. I inspect them carefully and treat them with respect. They could unhinge quite easily, but they are still robust enough for someone as light as me, who knows how to balance his body and properly distribute his weight. The Mercuriales offer a good workout and I make it all the way with only a light sweat. Thirty-five minutes, 35 floors, rather appropriate I think.

However, during my escalation of this corporate grey monolith, there is an unforeseen occurrence. One of the Mercuriales security guards had something of a nervous breakdown. A journalist once wrote that the emotional problems connected with my ropeless escalations are not mine, but actually belong to those on the ground. People certainly react differently when they see a man outside a tower a few hundred metres in the air. Maybe a psychologist could analyse your personality by such a response. I was surprised to witness this bear-like man truly sobbing at what I was doing. He honestly bawled, he was in such a state. I was quite lost at this reaction. I have no idea whether he was crying because he was artistically moved by seeing something he felt was incredible, or because he was terrified I was going to fall. Maybe seeing a man deliberately put his life in danger is too much for some. But don't people realise that they take risks every day? How close are we to a fatal head-on collision every time we step into our cars? Think of all the vehicles we drive past on any given day. Just a slight tug on the wheel and our lives would end. Each car, each day, all that risk adds up. What if the front tyre of a bus blew out as it approached a zebra crossing? Rarely will you see a man crying at the kerbside due to the traffic. I get down safely without arrest or fuss, though I see several guards comforting and consoling him. Oh well, I hope he is okay now.

Elf, the National Library, the Mercuriales... what's next?

Act 2: TF1

Local television channel Metropole 6, or M6 as it is commonly known, had offered me the opportunity of climbing the façadeof its building for a special show. Their building was particularly ugly so I had declined the invitation. In contrast, the new premises of channel TF1, a magnificent dark glass cylinder on the banks of the River Seine, had appealed to me but regrettably nobody there had implored me to take their outside staircase. In spite of its weak height, approximately 60 metres, the idea of going up TF1 particularly motivated me because the French anchor Patrick Poivre d'Arvor and the TV host Christophe Dechavanne had enthusiastically discussed a number of my escalations. TF1 had built itself a reputation of adventure and dabbled with the spectacular, and it seemed much more appropriate to climb for these guys. In addition, the challenge was actually very tough. My eyes flickered up and down images of their headquarters, searching for clues. From what I could ascertain, it would not be easy to conquer this tower. Soon Dechavanne got wind of my thoughts and I was invited on for a show — not for a conventional interview, but for a televised climb.

So I travel 600 kilometres north from my hometown to Paris and test the location with my climbing slippers, observing the lines of the building. I plan my route up and consider the movements I will employ. Everything seems to be going well: the building is climbable, the channel optimistic. And then, before we even start, the project sinks into oblivion — Dechavanne pulls the plug on it, telling me he doesn't want to set a bad example for the French youth! He says that if we televise me going up their headquarters, somewhere a teenager will try to copy me and will fall to his death. There would be a young French corpse, a grieving family, and Dechavanne would feel responsible. Dechavanne believes he is saving a life somewhere, saving someone who will not even know that they owe him their life. My answer to this? Bullshit! But there is no changing his mind, he believes a teenager's life is at stake and I am left high and dry.

But it is too late now. I am here and so is the tower. A gauntlet, once thrown down, cannot be taken back. I have already done my homework. I feel very confident about the climb and I do not try to hide it. Everyone knows what my next move will be. I approach the building and the TF1 guards intercept me, nice and playful.

"Don't even think about climbing here, Alain! Naughty naughty, no?"

"We shall see tomorrow, my friends."

These cordial relations reveal a certain confidence on both sides. An exquisite game of hide and seek is about to begin. The dimensions of the TF1 Tower are laughable when compared to the Elf Tower, and security is not as stringent, but I must still take all threats seriously even though I calculate I only need a few seconds to become inaccessible. These guys are very capable of catching me and terminating my escalation so once again it is necessary to be a little sly. For the occasion, two well built pals from the suburbs, Thierry and Bambi, will accompany me in case events transpire against us — guards against guards.

The stage is set and it's a perfect day. Our car approaches. All in all, our team includes three vehicles and a motor scooter. Thierry and Bambi arrive first on the scene, casually, acting like tourists or groupies. The second car is to drop me off while the Paris Match journalist parks some distance away from the front. On the scooter is my sister. Her duty? A live commentary of events via her mobile phone to my wife back in Valence. Nicole is happy at home with what is now three kids but as always she takes a keen interest in how things are going.

I glance at my fellow conspirators and watch as everyone settles into position. Without even realising it we are beginning to perfect these stealthy attacks and becoming more and more skilled at outwitting security. Even before the car grinds to a halt, I spring out 20 metres from my target. Slightly withdrawn from the stage, Thierry and Bambi each casually smoke a cigarette. Security, on the alert since dawn, is waiting for me. The chess game we have undertaken is in many ways very similar to Morpion Solitaire, the game practised by generations of pupils on school benches. The one who begins the game usually wins — if he does not make a false move. I strike first.

I run the short distance to the building and start the escalation exactly where a pair of rails provide a comfy grip. Without warning, two metres from the ground, a hand seizes me! My right foot, snatched by an invisible force, tries to wriggle free. A huge weight drags me downwards and also backwards. I clench my fingers to resist the substantial downwards pull. My flailing legs are now free of the structure completely, my hands clamped on for dear life. If I lose my grip in this posture, I must be ready for yet another broken nose. But then, and I do not know how, I manage to escape. I race up three more metres before taking a brief break on an electronic surveillance camera, my forearms aching from the strain. I am not used to a violent intrusion to my climbing like this and now the lactic acid is coursing through my muscles too close to the departure point. The struggle was so severe that I still wonder how I got away. Right now I feel invincible, muscular, unstoppable, and my confidence rockets. In fact, I later learn that I owe my liberation to the robust intervention of Bambi and Thierry who took out a guard who had been hiding round the corner just two metres from me!

From my look-out post, identical to the view from the monitors in the CCTV room, I see them sprinting away from the entire security force. TF1 has sounded the alarm. Desperately outrunning a swarm of angry security guards, my pals bolt towards the escape car belonging to the Paris Match journalist who, seeing the crowd of aggravated guards sweeping down on him, shouts: "Hey! I don't know these guys!"

Too late. There is panic on board, the press ship sinks by all the hatches. Right now the battle is being fought elsewhere. I am in the clear and can pursue my escalation in peace.

The ascent is testing but relatively straightforward and good fun. Due to its moderate height, the escalation takes me just 15 minutes. I clamber over the top to meet the security troop. Disappointed, and a little hurt to have been cheated, they remain courteous. After the earlier skirmish, plus the battle by the car, the reception could have been much less cordial and much more physical. None too pleased, they detain me until the cops arrive.

When the cops get there, the pissed-off guards raise a complaint for assault and forced entry. Logical, I suppose, I can't really argue with that. Two police officers arrest me and it's off to the station again. Once we arrive they sit me down for the nicest interrogation of my career. They took me back to the station via a tremendously circuitous route I could have entitled 'the complete tour of police stations of Paris and everywhere else'. I think they just wanted a nice chat with their friends and a leisurely day.

One question torments me though — who raised the complaint? Was it the channel management or was it the security? If it is the management, then this is really a joke. They are supposed to be the channel of boldness, adventure and fresh ideas — if not always the channel of the best taste. TF1 is a channel of the young, a tabloid channel which continuously sacrifices ethics for audience ratings. Would they really mount a complaint for an escalation which they could have broadcast for their adventure show Ushuaïa or their reality show Everything is Possible? TF1 trumpet my climbs and are always behind me when they report me climbing somebody else's building. Frankly I cannot believe it. Paradoxically, this media escalation remains completely unnoticed. I understand there are no images, with the photographer submerged in a mass brawl. And of course the other channels have found the story too 'sensitive' to report on, not wanting to upset fellow media bosses or invite controversy. At the police station, I learn that the cops enjoyed the stunt we pulled over the security, overcoming the reputation of immunity that TF1 had acquired. In later years, having climbed a lot of buildings built by the Bouygues group, of which TF1 is a part, I knocked on the door of the parent company and the reception was decidedly cool. Where was the sense of humour of the producers of this channel's hilarious satirical shows, the Grosses Têetes or the Bébête Show? I struggled to find it after I climbed the TF1 Tower!

Two days after the escalation I bump into Gérard Carreyrou, presenter of political debates at TF1. Two curvaceous admirers jiggle towards him in search of autographs. He tells them to ask me instead, making many complimentary remarks. I discuss the climb and the arrest at the headquarters with him for some minutes. Soon it is clear what happened — the security department raised the complaint and the company for the most part knew nothing about the episode.

A fortnight after this encounter, I am invited to a very posh cocktail party for the launch of LCI, the new 24-hour information channel overseen by TF1. A week is a very long time in media and politics and in no time everything has changed. Paris Match dedicated six pages to the story, with a beautiful double-page photo perfectly highlighting the TF1 Tower and its logo. Parisian celebrities and socialites are there and I help myself to petits fours and champagne. I have chosen to dress from head to toe in leather for this chic party. I know nobody there, except through my TV screen. Before long Corinne Bouygues, the advertising manager, greets me.

"When I saw you climbing by my office window, I was so surprised that I called Mougeotte (vice chairman of the NDLT channel) to find out whether it was for an organised show or not!"

There are many bigwigs milling around with their sparkling glasses. The Minister of Justice, Jacques Toubon, seems to know a lot about me and obviously knows a thing or two about the courts. This is someone who can teach me a lot about the judicial risks of my little excursions. Between sips of Champagne, he confides that my escalations are neither legal, nor really illegal. I'm involved in full legal vagueness. It is all down to interpretation, but that is in itself not really enough for a jailable conviction. I ask whether things might change now there is awareness about such behaviour; behaviour that the authorities obviously take exception to. He scoffs at the idea then adds, smiling, "Come on! Parliament is not going to discuss an Alain Robert law!"

For sure, there are more important things for Parliament to worry about. The power of the law will only be brought to bear if the state feels threatened. But television... we cannot imagine the power TV stations can have. Just like the Roman emperors, who decided life or death for the gladiators, television can decide your existence. It is quite amazing how your life is transformed when you become recognised in public. Sure, it can be flattering, but one negative comment by a journalist in the papers or on TV and it is amazing how the daggers can come out, how pliable public opinion is. Some individuals I know in the public eye feel it is absolutely necessary to fortify their homes like Fort Knox in an effort to stem the acute focus of attention. This attention encompasses the whole spectrum of human emotions. The most important thing is to remain the same, to remember who you really are and not to betray yourself or try to impress.

For example, for Nulle Part Ailleurs, a very popular primetime show on NDLT, I found it quite natural to arrive at the studio through the window. I didn't want to walk onto the stage and bow like an actor or celebrity, it would be unnatural for me. I am a climber, that's all. Unfortunately, for a different show on Canal +, the studios were situated in the basement and required a more conventional entrance. Another time I made an appearance on a popular late night show. Here I experienced the dark side of entertainment, where the aim is often to embarrass or humiliate fellow guests. There are plenty of egos out there, all competing for attention and adulation. The trick lies in being able to remain yourself when provoked, but also to push forward in front of them and if possible, make the other guests shut up. It's not always easy, of course, but a good sense of humour goes a long way. Even if I do not like this stupid game, I think I can handle it when someone attacks me. Not with Machiavellianism but with sincerity. Okay, okay, some could lay the accusation that with my clothes I also try to draw attention. Sorry guys, but I like my non-conformist look, my snakeskin jackets, my Indian jewels and my long hair. What's the problem? I dress this way every day. I like it.

Television has been good fun though too. It's nice to have a whole TV crew pointing at you, with everyone showing sincere interest in what you say! Let's just say this disproportionate interest in our words or opinions is hardly normal and is very flattering. Among all the TV shows I have participated in, my favourite remains the broadcast with Michel Drucker. Drucker is one of France's most influential journalists, but truly, I very much appreciate the guy. He is simple, human and relaxed. The show we did was fun and our exchange of questions and answers appeared in the 'best-of' rerun.

A week or two later, television is again at the forefront of my mind. In fact it is at the forefront of my forearm. At the behest of the TV guys, in this case Canal +, I aim to overcome the Crystal Tower in Grenelle. I am to escalate this 27-storey building on the banks of the Seine with a clip- on microphone and a small video camera attached to my wrist, so the audience can get up close and personal with the escalation. Curiously, the channel management are not afraid of the illegal character of the ascent. Rafts of cameras are fitted with wide-angle panoramic lenses to amplify the impression of space. Thankfully they do not need a running commentary — I only have to add a small personal touch with live dialogue every now and then. I am very uncomfortable carrying the camera, as it is most distracting and interferes greatly with my movements. Also I am not in the habit of talking during my escalations. Canal + however get what they want — nice dramatic pictures from many angles, from the river, from the air and also an angle never filmed before: from the wrist of a solo climber.

The images might have been much more spectacular if, once I reached the summit, I had not narrowly avoided a fall. After successfully navigating the vertical bulk of the structure, I was faced with a short but slippery 45- degree section leading to the pyramidal summit, a few metres above. But on this oblique surface, I could not find a single grip. The only feature was a joint protruding by a mere two millimetres which I had to alternately push against with my hands and feet for leverage. Tricky but just about manageable. until one of my slippers gave way. A fall directly filmed by a wrist-borne camera and transmitted right across France! Sky, window pane, flailing arm, sky, window pane, sky... silence. shock in the studio. dramatic pause upon the windswept top of a skyscraper. Fortunately the fall terminated on a horizontal area between the pyramid and the precipitous edge.

"I am okay! Hey! We must have blown the audience away with that one!

I bet they loved it!" Not really sensible though. Thanks to this escalation I have learnt not to sacrifice too much to the screen. Pictures are great but they can come at a very high price if I let the directors and producers dictate my climbs. I really ought to have learnt this by now.

Act 3: The Eiffel Tower

The escalation of the Eiffel Tower has long been a classic among French, and indeed international, rock climbers. Illegality does not stop those who, by night, often after two or three glasses of wine too many, want to horse around on the iconic Parisian landmark. Notre-Dame Cathedral is also appreciated by revellers in spite of its evident fragility, perhaps drawing attention mostly due to its famous bell tower and the literary antics of Quasimodo. Beyond the anecdotal, the escalation of the Eiffel Tower is nevertheless rarely accomplished. Generally, rock climbers start their ascent at the first floor and finish at the second. A nice after-dinner stroll you might say.

My ascent was not exceptional, even if it was a matter of climbing the whole 300 metres of scrap metal which, according to urban myth, have been sold over and over again in a good dozen scams to gullible businessmen. I had no project, no agenda. I wanted to mark the New Year by climbing this mythical building, just for the pleasure of it. I did not want to simply eat a dozen oysters before kissing everyone, as I did every other year. I wanted a little solitude at this special moment.

In the daytime, the Eiffel Tower does not catch a climber's eye, nor inspire him. The enormous mess of steel girders makes it look like an immense ladder, without any real technical difficulty. But by night, the tower wraps itself in mystery, shadows and magic. It becomes a wondrous labyrinth, a staircase to the stars.

On December 31st 1996, snow had invaded the capital and smothered everything. A Siberian cold transformed the city into an icy wilderness. Paris was hidden, reclaimed. One wouldn't have been surprised to see the wolves of Serge Reggiani's song. This night was also chosen for an anti-terrorism and crowd control exercise which had spread 5000 supplementary policemen in strategic places, the Eiffel Tower of course being one of them. GIGN, France's elite counter-terrorism and hostage rescue unit, was regularly engaged in climbing training around France. A few days before the New Year a GIGN specialist had bizarrely told the tower's managers and a few friends that he had heard of my desire to spend New Year's Eve on the Eiffel Tower. How on Earth did he know that? The project was supposed to remain secret because it was a personal ascent and no media had been informed. Very few trusted friends knew. I am no longer paranoid enough to believe that my phone was being tapped but this anecdote remains enigmatic to say the least.

This evening my friend Stef, a doctor and amateur photographer, wished to accompany me. Stef felt like something a bit different this year too. A little before they locked the elevators, he had gone to the second floor to settle down discreetly in the stairwell to await my passage. My years of experience in the high mountains allowed me to choose the most suitable equipment. The temperature was an aggressive minus 15 degrees Celsius with a wind chill effect which made it very cold up there on the exposed frigid metal. It was impossible to use rock climbing boots as they had no dexterity. Slippers too would not be up to the job. They would be too thin and would freeze and crack on the spot, possibly sticking and ripping while also exposing my feet to sub-zero metal. A pair of sporting shoes, a decent pair of warm trousers, a polar fur-lined jacket, a second Gore-Tex overcoat and a pair of fleece gloves made up my equipment.

It is 11:15pm sharp, time to start. I decide to avoid the foot of the tower fitted with a pocket-sized police station and attack by the east pillar instead, but the wind has encrusted iced snow on this oblique part, making the escalation particularly delicate, perhaps even impossible. I attempt to ascend but after just two metres, I descend again in a woeful slide. It's just bad luck. But after several fruitless attempts, my climber's instincts resurface: if the east pillar is plastered in ice then the west one must be dry, assuming the wind has been constant. It seems logical. Some more warm tea and here I am, ready to go.

As expected, the west pillar is more forgiving and I quickly leave the launch pad. It is now a matter of briskness because security can easily apprehend me at the first floor, or indeed at the second one. Once I am past the second floor I should be okay as the third is at the summit and there is little chance that anyone can interfere with me once I make the spire. At first the savage metal robs the heat from my hands and I have to add a pair of mittens, a second protective layer for my frozen fingers. But soon I fall into my stride and I warm up, ditching the cumbersome things.

The legs of the tower begin to converge at the first floor, a critical stage I must pass swiftly if I am to evade capture. In spite of the icy contact with the metal, I remove my gloves as I need the grip. My hands feel fine, as I am generating a lot of heat with my efforts, and under my polar jacket it is like a steam room. The arches curl over and overhang here and I eventually find myself upside down. But the structure is generous and supportive and I surpass it with few problems.

Having passed the first floor, the security guys detect me. A few yells ring out and it looks like the negotiation to reach the second level is going to be tough. They want me to descend immediately to the first floor — but I tell them I haven't finished yet. In the nearby staircase they shadow my progress and put me under prodigious pressure. One guy wants to kill me, the other one resents me because, as he says, he is risking his life because of me just after his wife has delivered a child. Is the night so cold that he has to tremble like that?

At the second floor, as expected, they lash out, swing, grope and grab at me! The pressure rises a notch. They want nothing other than to fight with me, my safety is not an issue for them. I have no choice but to stop the adventure as they seem capable of making me fall.

"Okay, okay, okay guys, I surrender..."

To get closer, I cross the struts horizontally and join a beam leading to the stairs and the guards. My head sinks slightly with disappointment. I quit. The atmosphere relaxes, the pressure loosens, their shoulders drop a little. Détente. I edge closer along the beam towards my satisfied captors. And then I fly away.

"Bye bye, see you on the third floor! Happy new year!"

They seem even more upset now. I continue my climb and take in the view. It must be around midnight now: the big reconciliation hour, peace, forgiveness and goodwill to all men. But not for the tower guards who are raving lunatics, utterly hysterical. The air is crisp and sounds travel for miles. Their roaring must be heard from the Basilique du Sacre Coeur to La Defense. Goodwill to all men? For sure, our watches do not indicate the same hour.

A little higher and my sleight of hand does no favours for my professional doctor and amateurish photographer friend tucked into the stairwell. Stumbling upon him in an excitable state, the guards assail him with gusto. Later, Stef will tell me that their breath was loaded with festive alcohol, which could explain their quasi-surrealist nervousness.

I peer between my feet. I can hear much of the commotion from here. It sounds like Stef's new year celebrations are not so enjoyable this year. But for my part, life is beautiful. The structure narrows and the escalation changes, becoming more aerial and exposed, and more silent. The setting is wonderful, the view over the snow-clad capital is hypnotising. I climb up rung by rung absorbing the magic of midnight Paris.

Below the final overhang, a few metres before the summit, I hesitate and wonder which method I shall use. This is the difficult part. And just to spice it up a little, the police are waiting for me. At the midnight hour at the icy pinnacle of the Eiffel Tower, a discussion occurs between climber and cops.

"Okay, I am coming out, but promise me I will not be struck by the guards!"

"No problem, we are in charge here."

The security lads, demoralised, promise me they will catch me some time. But tomorrow is another day. I climb up the last wire netting then jump over onto the top balcony. Firemen rub me down with blankets.

"Thank you very much, but I am actually very hot. But you guys must be frozen!"

At the small police station in one of the four feet of the tower, the guards want to press charges, but my dishevelled and limping doctor friend can testify to the fact they are completely drunk and were acting very dangerously. In addition, he could also press charges for assault and battery... It all balances out so no charges are pressed and the cops, who aren't in the mood for busting anyone tonight, send us on our way.

The ascent of the Eiffel Tower in these wintry conditions on New Year's Eve, by myself with neither crowd nor media, barely disturbed by a couple of intoxicated bully boys, remains a great recollection. Ideally I would have preferred a glass of Champagne at the summit with Stef, and perhaps to nibble on a piece of sausage. It is good for the soul to sit on the top of a mountain at sunset, or as the moonlight gently illuminates your face. Everyone should be able to savour these magic moments. The authorities did not let me enjoy my new year this time. Too bad.

The Eiffel Tower may be the most famous historical monument but it is not the only one worth escalating in Paris. Notre-Dame Cathedral and the Sacré Coeur have already received a number of guests. But strangely, two beautiful buildings of weak dimensions had not attracted anyone yet: the Obelisk at the Place de la Concorde and the column in the Place Vendome. Beyond the technical aspect of both escalations (they are much more complex than they appear), their great locations in the city and their captivating histories confer on them a particular charm. I couldn't resist either of them and spontaneously climbed these two pillars without any plan at all. Why did I do this? It was love at first sight. While others feel compelled to photograph such a handsome feature, I feel compelled to climb it. But since both actions are so modest it is only a short-term love affair, a tryst.

The 3,500-year-old Luxor Obelisk set in the Place de la Concorde is only 23 metres high but it is not at all easy to get your hands on. To protect it from vandalism it is placed on top of a seven-metre pedestal and these first seven metres are completely smooth, flat and impossible to climb. However I once noted there was a small cable running up one side of the pedestal: a wire which was needed to provide electricity to a set of lights which would illuminate the Obelisk at night. From atop this pedestal the Egyptian jewel would be accessible. Curious, I tugged on this cable, testing its strength. A judder and a tempest of dust advised me to proceed no further. The wire was clearly unsafe and, sadly, giving up seemed more reasonable. Too bad, because once the pedestal was crossed, the following 20 metres of immortal red-granite hieroglyphs would certainly have led me to the summit, in the heart of the most beautiful square in the world. But with no safe way onto the pedestal this would not feature in my tour of Façades that year.

I return there one Sunday afternoon in 1998. In Paris and with nothing to lose I venture to the Place de la Concorde for a second look at the Obelisk. The temptation is still there — and so is that temperamental and unreliable cable. I remember my abandoned attempt a few years ago. Back then I decided that if I grabbed it incorrectly it could easily snap off, perhaps taking some of the lights with it — landing me back on the pavement and in deep shit. Maybe I had been a little too cautious?

I step over and can't resist having a little tug at it. It seems to be okay. I know it is a bit of a gamble but I decide to give it a try. Gingerly I ascend one of the seven metres. It is a bit scary but I manage to take a few steps up before jumping free to the ground. I take another look at everything then try to climb two metres — and surprisingly it still holds okay. I drop to the ground again, this time emboldened. A third check of the cable and the lights, which I really don't want to fall on top of me, then I go up again and this time reach three metres. From this point there is a slight overhang but from where I am I decide that I should be able to overcome it.

So later that night I go back, check the coast is clear, and grapple with the cable again. I pull myself up on the cable gently so as not rip the light fittings off, and after a few quick strides I overcome the overhang. Upon the pedestal, my tentative fingers at last come into contact with the timeless Obelisk. Of course I dare not damage this magnificent pillar and inspect it meticulously before deciding whether to go ahead. The engravings feel strong and secure, being carved in granite, and I consider it extremely unlikely that they would crumble or give way. Such an occurrence would lead to a potential tragedy for me but more so for this ancient work of art.

Satisfied that climbing it is feasible I insert my fingertips into the Obelisk and lift myself upwards. My fingers and feet find useful notches and grooves, and within a couple of easy minutes I reach the summit. Floodlit by the lights I had earlier feared would crash onto my head, I stand atop this historic landmark like Admiral Nelson upon Nelson's Column in Trafalgar Square, and gaze around the Place de la Concorde. As my eyes sweep the scene below I see that I did have an audience after all. One solitary figure had been watching me: a beggar. The Obelisk has no doubt seen much over the millennia — armies, pharaohs and emperors — but I doubt it has ever seen any scene quite like this.

The column in the Place Vendome is 44 metres high and a monument to the great victory achieved by Napoleon's army at Austerlitz. It has a slight green copper tint to it, as it is cast from the bronze of 133 cannons captured from the enemy. This proud column, vaguely resembling a metallic lighthouse, also gave me a headache.

One day, passing unwittingly by the Place Vendome, I had hopped out of my car. It was deep winter, with a frosty gentle wind, and night had fallen particularly early this day. Out of pure curiosity I had approached to observe the reliefs and was intrigued and inspired by what I saw. Without a second thought I returned to the car, put on my slippers and decided to attack.

There is a randomness to the column quite different from what one would expect in other man-made features. Every move is different, involving a search for the best grips in the same way one would vary one's position when tackling cliffs. But this assault is in near darkness, with only the diffused glow from streetlamps to guide me. My fingers freeze against the icy metal. On a building, once you have worked out your preferred climbing method, the difficulty lies more in duration required to defeat it since the structure is uniform and the pattern of movements is replicated all the way up. Here, every step engenders particular hesitation and error because I am incapable of seeing and knowing which grip is really the best. But worst of all, I had not done my homework and had just taken off up this column, oblivious to the design of its pinnacle.

Unbeknown to me there was a little peaked roof topping the pillar. I discover this feature only when I get there, not the best time or place to consider such an obstacle. The final overhang is devoid of grips. It is frustrating to learn of this when you have climbed all the way up to the top of a column, but in such circumstances the wisest choice is to come down again. After some consideration this is what I do. Falling from 40 metres or 400 metres leads almost certainly to the same result: death. Or perhaps there is a small chance of incapacity, another kind of death. My wrists and knees, already damaged in my youth, would not support a significant fall. I am not a stuntman and the doctors have firmly told me that I am banned from falling. Solitary escalation requires a good understanding of danger, even if this column seems visually small. Without preliminary location research, the urban climber relies on instinct and fate. Knowing when to stop is above all knowing how to survive.

Act 4: The Montparnasse Tower

The Montparnasse Tower remains for me the project I had the most difficulty in accomplishing. Sometimes, even ifwe feel ready for a challenge, we discover much to our disenchantment that we just aren't. We can be outdone by events beyond our control, times when our motivation alone is not quite enough. And there are simply days when nothing goes as it should and one should be wise enough to walk away. But paradoxically it is also sometimes necessary to take a stand, despite everything that is thrown at you, because this resplendent 210-metre office skyscraper — puzzlingly regarded as the oldest modern high rise in Paris, and once the tallest in Western Europe — just had to be mine. However the victory was not at all simple.

My first attempt took place after I had abseiled down a façadeof the Champs-Elysées for charity. The high-profile humanitarian event was to mark the opening ofempty flats in the city to the homeless and was attended by Geneviève de Gaulle and Bernadette Chirac. Afterwards I met up with the patron of the operation, Bernadette Chirac, wife of future president Jacques Chirac who was then mayor of Paris. I told her that if this simple cobweb descent could bring such success then a more outlandish action would have a greater impact. How about Montparnasse? Her response was warm and her eyes twinkled at the proposal. In spite of the illegal nature of the escalation, she supported me by promising to contact the press, and immediately so. There's no time like the present!

I made the short journey through the capital in my little car. Objective: Montparnasse. The sky was typically Parisian, melancholy and brooding, but I did not care at all — the opportunity to take on Montparnasse with the blessing of the mayor's wife was there to be grasped. When I arrived, television teams were already on the scene. Cameramen, microphones, it was all happening. I remember being amazed at the efficiency of the mayor's wife. Surrounded by the watching press, I studied the building and prepared myself for the climb. And just as I started the escalation, it started raining, slowly at first, and then more vigorously. Within minutes it was a torrential downpour and the escalation became rather hazardous. I had had enough of this crappy weather and came to a halt. That's all folks. But there was virtually no one there to disappoint as almost everyone had left the scene. Like everyone else, I ran for cover and called it a day. So much for publicity and raising awareness for good causes.

I left it for a while and got on with other climbs, but the tower still stood there patiently for me. Montparnasse wasn't going away. Eventually I got another chance. The second escalation attempt was again attached to a humanitarian operation in support of the homeless. Unfortunately for me, these awareness campaigns tend to happen in the depth of winter to highlight their hour of need.

I approached the Montparnasse Tower again, wondering about fate. No rain this time but a horrible arctic wind and the perfect temperature for penguins. It looked bad. The rain on my first attempt was crippling to my progress and forced a U-turn; the cold this time was bearable but still uncomfortable. Technically the escalation was not extreme and the cold did not necessarily put me in danger. However, when our hands freeze, funny things happen. When we squeeze grips which we cannot feel any more, being sure of the grips' solidity requires a good dose of optimism.

Never mind, the grips were still easy. Few of the people around me thought it could be done. There was lots of head shaking and pointing upwards and gloomy doubt. It was everybody waiting for me to give up that finally decided it for me and spurred me to start the fight. I attacked the Montparnasse Tower for the second time. The sub-zero wind blasted me and I quickly lost all sensation in my hands and feet. In addition to the relentless biting wind and the contact with ice cold metal, my tight slippers and the bandages compressing my hands and fingers further restricted blood circulation. As I continued being assailed by the savage wind I was not sure how tight my grip was, so I tried to massage and resuscitate my hands. It was imperative to keep them functioning. I even tried banging them against the aluminium beams to warm them up.

At each floor, firemen followed in close contact. They were very concerned and wanted to bring me back with a gondola designed for window cleaners. With this wind though, anyone in the gondola would be more likely to be washing the windows of the building next door. Besides, it looked almost impossible for them to attempt anything of the kind: the gondola would have to make an entire horizontal tour of the tower to reach me and then go back. In these conditions that looked far harder than the actual escalation.

I continued on towards the summit through gales under the grey sky. This was certainly very challenging. At every level, behind the glazing, the tower employees showed me flashcards indicating which floor I had reached. Because of my pride, I had deliberately put myself in a predicament, a real battle lasting an hour and a half! But the smiles and messages motivated me and encouraged me not to forget that even if I was having a tough time of it, I would have the privilege that night of sleeping in a warm, cosy bed, contrary to the homeless people across the city.

In such conditions it takes a lot of effort to keep warm and mobile and I began to shiver, losing voluntary control of my muscles. Finally, and with great difficulty and relief, I made the summit. The first thing the firemen did was to offer me an orange juice and the second was to physically support me, such was the effect that fatigue and cold had on my arms and legs. Later, I had the fortune to meet them for a drink and a bit of horseplay at their station, thanks to a report covering the ascent in their internal review. Both sides enjoyed and learnt from the exchange.

But before all this I was at the police station, the epilogue of all my urban ascents. I must say that this time I was pleased to be there. Out of the wind and cold I could feel blood returning to my limbs, what an agonising relief! The sweet recollection of defrosting wounds. Torn by pain, I answered the classic questions laid out to me by the inspector, who is today a friend. Alain Moulin is the second most senior policeman in La Défense and has had the privilege of arresting me some twenty times so far. A fine and likeable man, he has even given me advice about climbing in his district. Personally I think this is a good way to start such intense relationships. An outside observer might have looked at me sitting there tense and twisted, my face contorted with pain, and assumed I was being subjected to police brutality. But maybe there was another type of pain in my twisted face too. The ascent of Montparnasse, even though achieved, remained for me unfinished. I could not help thinking that a 90-minute climb to the top of Montparnasse amounted to a yacht in the Sydney to Hobart race clocking up a finishing time of a fortnight. Yes, the challenge had been achieved, but without style or panache. I had lumbered, struggled, toiled, and though I had survived and made it to the top, I had to be virtually carried off it. This was not a real victory! It was thus written that I must take revenge.

The following year on a similar date, I leap out of a car with a cameraman running behind me gonzo style. I run through clumps ofcurious commuters towards the Montparnasse Tower. Before anyone knows it I am up the side of the building to applause from several onlookers below, plus the odd angry yell from the security contingent. This time I conquer Montparnasse in a healthy 35 minutes, bathed by a beautiful winter sun. Unlike my prior two climbs here, on this occasion there is no charity event or excuse and I am once again sent for a meeting with the judge.

For the record, the judge ordered me to pay 5000 francs for expenses incurred by the building management to check the structure for health and safety purposes, plus an identical sum for legal expenses incurred by the owners. We tried hard to mediate this figure and to reach a mutually acceptable agreement. Sadly many years have passed since then and we still haven't settled the matter.

Act 5: GAN Tower

Is my climbing jinx a purely Parisian thing? Not really. Nevertheless, another high rise building I took on here caused me severe problems. I attempted this climb in association with the newspaper Le Réverbère. When I reflect it seems particularly weird that two cursed Parisian climbs occurred when highlighting the plight of the homeless, almost as if the tragedy of their fate touches all of us that cross their paths. A bitter feeling overwhelms me when I think of these disturbing coincidences. I climbed a dozen buildings in Paris without any problems, and then... these two failures, two serious alerts where things deteriorated quite rapidly.

I exit the subway at La Défense to find a comely form sprouting from the ground ahead. Before me is the majestic GAN Tower, 178 metres tall with a footprint the shape of a Greek cross. A multitude of turquoise windows, enamelling and opened and closed blinds give it an almost reptilian texture from a distance. From close up my keen eye spots a splendid crack a dozen or so centimetres wide running all the way up to the top. The GAN is a quite perfect building and despite the stream of commuters passing by, I don't waste a minute in trying out some climbing movements.

Classic foot jammings are made more complex by the lack ofindispensable horizontal ledges one needs to rest upon. When there are no horizontal struts, the feet must be wedged in a gap and pushed outwards for leverage and grip, and the same goes for the hands. In this type of escalation the body needs to remain tense and rigid — there is no possible relaxation or looseness. This is obviously more taxing on the muscles, hence managing the speed of execution becomes an important factor.

I take a good look at the GAN Tower. I have to consider how long I can play this game and also calculate the timing required to complete the climb safely. If the latter is less than the former then the building is achievable. I walk round to the point of attack, the crack, which originates near a few newspaper vendors on the pavement. With a daily newspaper involved in this climb it goes without saying I have an impressive press entourage. There will be no security issues and the reporters await my commencement.

Within a few seconds I begin my assault. But after only a few metres it is clear that this is not working well. Another step and my foot jam gives way, a hand breaks loose and I find myself in an unpleasant and pathetic situation known as the 'barn door'. The name of this uncontrolled movement is a good analogy as your body is detached from the cliff on one side and you open out like a barn door, flapping as if your supporting foot and hand were hinges. It might look good on an ice rink but figure skating is not my favourite sport. My flailing arm draws imaginary patterns as I seek to swing back towards the building. It isn't working and only wild movements from my arms and legs can salvage the situation. I turn into a human windscreen wiper in an effort to avoid a rapid meeting with a concrete mattress. This isn't looking good for anybody and it is not the sort of thing people like to see if I am nearing the top. I press on but this unhappy scenario repeats itself twice more in the first 25 metres, the exertion becoming extreme. Increasing adversity tells me it is impossible to continue. Fifty more metres of this and I would have been an unconscious heap on the tarmac, and then the media would really have a story. Too bad for the journalists, but I need to abandon ship.

Seated at the base of the tower, crimson and feverish with overheated exertion, I loosen the laces of my slippers. The event has gone out with a whimper. My anger is rising, invading me slowly until I feel suffocated. I am vague, blank, pitiful. Around me, compassionate people are saying stupid shit like "You made the right decision" and "It's good to know when to quit." This hubbub of sympathy really floors me. I know they are right. Of course it is necessary to know when to give up, and indeed I know I have made the right decision. But frankly, at this moment, I just want to wake up in my bed and for this nightmare to vanish. It is a horrible, horrible anticlimax.

Three months later I am back at the GAN Tower, raring to go. After successful experimentation and test moves at the bottom, I recommence the escalation, full of confidence thanks to a recent and beautiful cliff success. I hardly get a metre higher than my previous attempt when it starts happening all over again, the worst kind of déjà vu.

On the square of La Défense below, my friends really dread seeing me in this precarious situation. I must be a victim of some sort of curse. Were the ancestors of a security officer or the architect into voodoo or some kind of black magic? Maybe somewhere in this world there is a miniature effigy of me scaling a broom handle pierced by thousands of needles? Both attempts got off to a good start but once the escalation got going the whole thing started to unravel. I try different solutions but the outcome is the same — exhausting barn doors and defeat. I have to descend again, repelled once more by this stubborn block.

A month later, I am back again, ready to climb this handsome yet adamantly elusive building. Throughout my life I have learnt that perseverance pays off in the end. But to get past this obstinate tower will take a lot of tenacity. To abandon a project considered too difficult is, in itself, a test. But to give up repeatedly during the same ascent is a much more formidable fight. In such cases the questioning and searching is consuming. Subconsciously, new forces lay siege to your spirit and try to shove it out through the revolving doors, or hurl it out of the tenth floor window. Thoughts become darker, less Cartesian, and emotions oscillate in the shady waters of luck and fate. I decide to adopt a different technique. Physically, my preparation had been intense and I am even leaner and trimmer than usual, having lost two kilos from an already light frame. I am resolved to overcome the GAN and cannot let this one get away! I have to find a solution, I just have to. During the previous two attempts, my feet had struggled when I had jammed them into the slender gap. Pushing them outwards was draining and I could not find the anchor I needed to push securely upwards. As usual I had bandaged my hands to protect them but today, for the first time, I had also protected my slippers, binding them to give them more stiffness and strength. Big solutions sometimes arise from the simplest details.

Broader and fuller, my feet stick better in the all-important groove and the ascent takes a radically different form. Quickly and decisively, I reach the summit.