7

LIBERTY BELL

Life is a journey, a scrolling pageant of scenery. As we travel this road, events can pass harmlessly by or accidentally crash into us. If we are going too fast or not paying enough attention, we can spin out of control, fly off the tarmac. Sometimes a road hog shunts us out of our lane before a junction and we end up by chance on a different but equally beautiful road. Though we try to direct our lives, fate makes us ball-bearings in a great pinball machine, sailing and bouncing through permanent chaos between disaster and success. Philadelphia was the scene of such an experience for me — events conspired to drag me through the rapids of a quite unplanned adventure. Philadelphia was once the capital of the United States and was known as the city of freedom, as embodied by a bell cast way back in 1752: the 'Liberty Bell'.

It is the 1990s and I am scratching around for sponsors to fund my escalations. I bag Outlaw, and they agree to become my clothing sponsor. Their head office is in Toronto, and an all-expenses-paid invitation to fly out to climb a building in the city comes my way. Knowing the climbing potential of this modern Canadian city, I tell them I will be there. Many such invitations come to nothing, but Outlaw and I make good progress and I get ready to pack a whole collection of slippers in my luggage. Before location scouting, I never know which equipment I am going to use for an ascent. Some slippers fit better with cracks or gaps in a building while others provide superior adhesion to the surface.

To add another interesting dimension, I hear the escalation will tie in somehow with a performance by electro-rock group Hors La Loi. And then, a day before my departure, a late phone call from the boss announces laconically that the operation is — wait for it — cancelled, because of pressure from Outlaw's lawyers and some other legal advisers. The price of my plane ticket will be reimbursed. Thank you. Goodbye.

Sponsoring these kinds of escalations abroad seems to raise no problems for multinationals, but on their territory, in their own country, it is much more complicated. When you are a safe distance away it is easy to benefit from an outside news item, to hit and run. Coming from one of my reliable sponsors, this about-turn hits me hard, like an act of treason. I shrug and keep my plane ticket. My bag is packed. I am keyed up to go climb a skyscraper! Maybe I can achieve my own ascent of a Toronto tower. But still, I am not happy. I consider that risk-taking must be shared. I put my life and my freedom on the line and my sponsors should honour our agreements and support my escalation. Surely this is fair. I phone around to grumble and soon get through to Julie, my agent.

Julie succeeds in persuading me to 'let the matter drop' (What an inappropriate expression!) telling me instead of the advantages of climbing in her home city — Philadelphia. Cunning as a fox, she plays on my frustrations and delivers a good argument. What kind of outlaw is Outlaw anyway? More like 'Grovel before the Law' or 'Outlawyers' perhaps. Shit, why give my cowardly sponsor such an undeserved present — an escalation in Toronto — when supportive Philadelphia stretches out its welcoming arms? I get off the phone and pull out my bible, The World's Highest Buildings, flick through a few pages of flattering images of the American city and make my decision.

Goodbye Toronto, hooray for Philadelphia!

My face clamped against the porthole of a 747, I observe Philadelphia as we descend. The approach to the airport is less interesting than in New York or Chicago. Here, high rises seem scattered, and even if the aerial view is misleading, the concentration of tall buildings is weak. When Julie, a former model hardly 25 years of age — such a beautiful girl — meets up with me, she reads disappointment on my face. Put simply, as for many immigrants confronted with reality, the American dream is not as beautiful as in books. Partially responsible for my journey to Philadelphia, Julie foresaw this. She whips out some grainy photocopies of a building from her handbag. It is One Liberty Place, the city's highest building, standing at 287 metres. I cannot determine yet whether I can climb it or not, but even from this poor-quality image I notice that it has prominent architectural features forbidding any hope of reaching the summit. This is so frustrating. The tallest buildings cry out to be climbed even though they often have features or obstacles which prevent me reaching their true apex. The desire to reach the absolute top of a structure often drives me towards buildings of lesser scale. Beauty or status can compensate for any shortcomings when I decide to commit. Doesn't this sound like the way humans decide to commit to other relationships?

On the highway leading to the city centre, Julie tells me more about the 200-metre club. There are only five members. In other words, my options are very limited. But the locations are quickly visited so I head out to swiftly assess them.

One Liberty Place? As expected, beautiful but no way. It is far too complicated, and what really kills it off is that the summit is impossible to attain. But nearby, a more modest building of only 45 floors and a shade over 200 metres attracts my exercised eye. The Blue Cross-Blue Shield Tower is a beautiful crystal of smoky and particularly aesthetic blue glass, and looks 'easy' to climb. To the left, Two Liberty Place raises the same issues as its bigger brother. Blue Cross-Blue Shield though has a devastating design thrusting from the earth like luxurious geysers of blue ice, topped by a pyramid-like sloping roof. It is magnificent, irresistible... I catch Julie by the sleeve so we may have a closer yet discreet look at its feasibility. From about 50 metres, I have most of my answers. At this safe distance I can leisurely study the holistic structure without drawing the attention of the ever-present security services. I dissect my specimen with my binoculars. I spy on the building, tracing her lines, unlocking her secrets.

Facing the Blue Cross-Blue Shield from the opposite pavement, I do not want to cross the road. But not the slightest grip can be seen on this crystalline monument. It seems to be a block of pure glass. I pause then slalom reluctantly through the traffic, fearful of seeing my dreams dashed. Julie is on the other side of the boulevard, leaning against the mirrored surface of a nearby building which reflects and multiplies her image. Three smiling Julies are waiting for me. We walk a little until flanked by blue and I survey the foot of the building, silently looking for a fingerhold, a foothold, a weakness. Julie follows me, perplexed and curious. And then the miracle occurs — I finally find the Achilles heel, a fine crack which will allow me to climb. My fingers slip only with difficulty into the groove and as for my feet, well, essentially the chance of them going in there is science fiction; but at this moment, Blue Cross-Blue Shield is playable. Extreme, but playable. It is the tail end of the afternoon and the city-dwellers swarm on the pavements, making a test climb impossible. Not only that but I have no slippers. But my mind is made up — this building attracts me irresistibly, dangerously, as the maiden Lorelei attracted the skippers of the Rhine. I shall climb it.

I generally make a small trial attempt by night to test my theories and experiment with my moves. We return to the scene under the cover of darkness, to put into practice the method elaborated at Julie's place: ascent via two sets of cracks. But I have slightly overestimated my reach. Quartered, crucified backwards with my crooked nose pushed against window panes, I cannot move a hair. It impossible to move my feet. I have no choice but to pull on a single tiny crack which will not allow me to jam in my feet, a basic requirement in escalation. After multiple attempts and multiple failures, I reach, in agony, the first horizontal joint — a small concrete and silicone strip marking the border between two panes. There are 120 others like this. I do not dare to undertake the second phase as the percentage of risk is not in my favour. Exhausted, I drop down.

Back on the pavement, my brain bubbles: ideas collide, mix with doubt and uncertainty, and whirl in a maelstrom of frustration. I look up, look around, inspect the crack once again. I do not know. I do not know any more. And yet a prodigious force urges me not to abandon the project, to persist, to attempt the movements with various different slippers, to determine which pair will give the best results. I go through my whole collection. It's all in vain.

Julie advises me to abandon Blue Cross-Blue Shield. Deep inside (she will admit it later), she feels partially responsible and is concerned for my safety. A few yards away I attempt another tower, with equal success. But it is only a half-hearted attempt because my mind is elsewhere: Blue Cross- Blue Shield obsesses me as never before! Against Julie's advice — in these moments, I do not listen to anybody — I return to my nemesis full of determination and collide again with failure.

Finally, expecting nothing but defeat, I try to climb with my feet against the panes. I expect to slip, to judder downwards, something I would prefer not to do 200 metres in the air. But unexpectedly, and because every face of this building is washed thoroughly every four days, the adhesion of my slippers turns out to be firm, well beyond my expectations. I should have known from the sheen of this building that the glass was immaculately clean, but how many buildings are so pampered? This is an amazing stroke of good fortune. There is still an element of uncertainty as I cannot be sure the window cleaners are so attentive over the entire surface, especially high up where they might be tempted to rush the job and get down for their cup of tea. I doubt if many people go up to check their handiwork — let's face it, the only people likely are other window cleaners and the occasional French rock climber! But I have earned some respite and the fight is on.

It is strange. Sometimes, a tiny hope of success leaves us greatly perplexed. When there is no possible way forward, desolation leads not to defeat but acts as an imperative to propel us onwards to victory. This can be applauded as a 'never say die' attitude. But on the other hand, when the mind does not succeed in reaching a resolution, and a weak light of hope still sparkles, how can we be persuaded that abandoning a sinking ship is not necessarily an act of cowardice? Does the captain go down with his ship or jump overboard to rally his men to fight another day? Blue Cross- Blue Shield is such a stricken ship, and I need bravery to make the best decision. I have a whole night to think about it, a night of fear, a night haunted by demons.

In the past I was sometimes obsessed by a target. The building or the cliff was so perfect that its only defect was that it hung in my consciousness without ever being able to leave me in peace. I would be hounded and harassed by this rock or building, without even a second of respite. These visions were so violent that I would often feel compelled to attack the target, almost as a form of self-defence. When vanquished they became my most beautiful sports successes as well as driving me through some of my most risky challenges. They were also the root of my most terrible fears... If performing a precarious movement over Verdon's green waters gives me a chill, the simple fact of imagining this situation, before even lifting a foot, terrifies me.

I lie in the twilight, staring at the ceiling of my room, sleepless in Philadelphia. I can feel myself being sucked in. I must find a way out. an exit if I am brave enough, or a solution if I have equal courage. The trial run was so clumsy apart from the last attempt and that was hardly a resounding success. This Blue Cross-Blue Shield building offers no other way, no alternative strategies if I need to switch. The design of the building also excludes any possibility of rest. Doubts creep in. The Golden Gate Bridge had been a close call: had the cable been a few metres longer or the paint a little more slippery, my miscalculation would have meant I would not be in this comfy bed now. Sometimes you must give up. But how to deal with failure?

Recently in Paris I had to climb the Concorde-Lafayette Hotel for a sponsor. There was little to worry about and the heat of the tail end of summer was no trouble. It seemed like it would be an enjoyable excursion. But on the day, after an advertising campaign and in the presence of the press, I opted to call off my ascent and climb down from the dozen floors that I had already put behind me, the structure being slightly moistened by rain. It took huge amounts of strength to get that far, and all my reserves to reverse and get down. By the time I had descended to the second floor I was utterly exhausted and had nothing left. I looked for the best place to jump down to. I landed safely on the ground before a crowd of cameras and journalists, utterly spent. I had no intention of committing suicide and had fought tooth and nail to get back down in one piece. The jump, though sizeable, did not injure me. But up there my body had reached its limit. Naturally, danger is a motivator, but all the will in the world cannot make a car go another yard if it is out of gas. I had known to turn back at the right time, estimating a fall in the neighbourhood of the 20th or 21st floors. Only in Hollywood movies are happy endings adhered to religiously. Reality is totally different. Even if we can run 25 miles, the 26th may be impossible. Any further effort is useless. Knowing when to quit isn't just wise, it is necessary, and it will be imposed upon us if we do not take the initiative ourselves.

Will I be able to adhere to the building's panes for almost 300 dramatic metres without sliding? I try to extrapolate various climbing parameters but it is clearly impossible to answer this question without trying it. In traditional escalation, the immense majority of solo ascents are always a little unpredictable. They can be difficult but climbers employ hooked grips which tell you at once whether or not enough hold exists to proceed. On flat surfaces or with fickle grips, you do not know what to expect. You can slide simply due to a tiny veil of dust, or because the push of your foot was too enthusiastic or not correctly anchored through its axis. This unpredictability has built my fame in the climbing world. It has formed the basis for my life, but also perhaps one day, for my demise.

As luck would have it, one ofJulie's friends works at NBC as a presenter. Of course the television channel loves a story and the management have been informed of my upcoming climb. They are very keen to broadcast some footage, but as usual they don't want to take any legal risks. So we wheel out a tried-and-tested approach which satisfies the channel's requirement to make it look like it is first on the scene due to the speed and tenacity of its journalists. Viewers might be surprised to learn how much of the media's reporting is stage-managed to create an artificial air of independence and distance from the subject. Sure, some of it is genuine, but the rest? Show business! Reporters with sole access to a story can often call the shots in much the same way as a documentary director.

I am told by the news team that NBC helicopters take to the air over the city each day at about 5:00pm, to report on the traffic or any unfolding events. Since the surreal live broadcast of the car chase involving O.J. Simpson, helicopters have been at the forefront of American news gathering. News has become more like reality TV, dramatic voyeurism showing things as they take place, non-stop, often with little explanation or analysis. It's all action. But in order not to be accused of collusion, the pilots must be able to assert that they accidentally discovered me scaling the Blue Cross-Blue Shield as they made their daily tour of the skies. If I attack the tower a little earlier, the timing should match their flight plans.

NBC decides to whip up some images in preparation of the escalation. The city in which the Rocky movies were set conjures up images of training to that heroic music. I am asked to jog up a flight of stairs, as in the movies, and then raise my arms to the sky in a triumphant and combative manner. They are going to use this as an intro to their report, soundtrack and all. It doesn't sound anything like the spontaneous report they were talking about, but okay, cue the music. After Schwarzenegger in San Francisco and Bruce Lee in Malaysia, I am now Stallone in Philadelphia.

Muscles, muscles, it's always about muscles. This symbol of invincibility in this city which fondly identifies itself with Rocky is too much for the producers to resist. Standing only one metre sixty five high, I admit that I have difficulty lending myself to this role. I am a climber, not an actor, the things I do are real.

But I go along with it. I jump through their hoops pretending to be a fictional boxer hard at training. Early in the afternoon, I need to stop. The TV guys try to get me to do a few more scenes but I am throwing in the towel. That's enough, I'm fed up! I want to be alone, I want to write picture postcards and, if my subconscious allows me, to sleep a little. I need to rest, to disengage. I have a skyscraper to climb later today.

Back in my room I lose myself as I scribble away on a bunch of postcards. Writing has always pleased me. Before a huge project, it is a sort of release. The senses sometimes conjure up unexpected sentences which take on other dimensions. When I travel, I cannot help filling the backs of postcards with thoughts for my friends. I write according to the humour of the madness or mounting stress levels I find myself with. Sometimes, I even write more cards than I have addresses. I like playing with the words, imagining that when my friend receives the card he will have a good laugh at my waffle — or that when he gets it the lines may have added irony due to the fact I shall perhaps not be around any more. Macabre? Not for me. Anyway, at this precise moment, having performed like a seal at the circus, rest is a profound need. I dream of the beautiful noise of handcuffs snapping around my wrists. It is a synonym for success, and for life. I slip into my bed and let my mind drift. Despite all these images colliding in my head, I succeed in sleeping for half an hour or so, no doubt facilitated by my earlier exertions and a lack of sleep the night before.

The hour arrives. It is time to go. As part of my preparations I choose a jacket with easily accessible pockets into which I can slide my special bottles, the ones used by athletes on the move. Where the structure permits it, I might snatch a drink and rest a moment. Regrettably this is a rare luxury as it is more often than not impossible to take a break. Next, I must choose my slippers carefully. I weigh up the factors affecting my decision: the construction materials, the architecture, the weather. I opt for my Bambas, flexible and comfortable slippers in a size a little larger than I usually use. Generally, rock climbers' feet are compressed in a fashion that would be unbearable for non-climbers. It may seem like masochism, but it is in fact physics. When the toes are compressed and unable to move, the precision of this small grip is multiplied tenfold. You can seek out a smaller groove or ledge and your rigid foot is more robust in this tiny area, the same way a metal hook would catch or snare in the rocks. But the Blue Cross-Blue Shield does not require such footwork. I have considered the complex adhesions required for this climb, and I choose a large size which enables me to roll and flex my feet. The loss in precision is inversely proportional to what is gained in adhesion. But I have to admit that beyond these technical aspects, I have also chosen these slippers because these faithful companions have already participated in the successful completion of numerous different challenges. I am unusually attached to these shoes. I guess it's a kind of foot fetish.

There is still one major problem which needs to be dealt with — the effect on my skin of climbing several hundred metres of a narrow crack. This is a glass building and the pressure and friction constantly pulls at the skin. If one of my fingers were to be sliced open, blood would act as a very effective lubricant and reduce my adhesion to zero. Professional rock climbers will often sand down their fingers with glass-paper to remove the thick calluses, sometimes on a daily basis. This fossilised skin can act like a comfortable glove and protect us from the pain of sharp or rough surfaces. But the thickness and hardness of this skin can also reduce the sensitive, pliable surface we need to effect a good grip. Worse, these thick calluses can easily split and crack, leading to bleeding and forbidding any escalation. To counter this risk, I protect my hands with unstretchable adhesive strips which are usually used in physiotherapy. Fingers must be mummified except for their tips, which are exposed for sensation and adhesion. Success depends on technique as much on training.

I take a call and then slam the phone down irately. I often find the duplicity of the press infuriating. After making an idiot of myself and running up and down stairwells for them, it seems NBC are happy to get all the footage and showcase their scoop, but offer me no cooperation whatsoever as this is an illegal ascent. They won't film me making the escalation live, they wish to 'stumble' across it in their helicopter. They want to protect themselves but they are happy to see me risk life and limb, and get thrown in jail, so long as they get their story! I almost always have some backup, people I can count on, but here I am alone. One of Julie's friends, a weatherman called John, does try to organise some ground footage but NBC shy away and will have no part in it. They do at least drive me to the building, but in the car leading me towards my fate, the silence is deafening. Nobody speaks. These fellows from NBC are awash with embarrassment and do not dare to talk to me. But what could they say? When you drive somebody to the hospital emergency room, you avoid small talk. You also avoid expressing support or encouragement as it would come across as fake. If you are wise, you keep silent. You drive.

I withdraw and try to control my cardiac pulsations as my heartbeat has already doubled in pace and strength even before I have moved an eyebrow. The tower is within sight. I am frightened, since without a doubt this will be one of the toughest buildings I have ever taken on. The fiasco of my trial runs flicker through my mind: the slipping, the exhaustion, the difficulty of finding a solution. I decide to lighten the mood and muck around a bit with these sober men. "We who are about to die salute you!" I bellow at close range, to their startled bewilderment.

Alain’s climbing adventures began early. This photo taken by boyhood friend Pierre shows Alain with the young of a formidable eagle owl encountered halfway up a cliff.

By his early twenties Alain had established himself as a top rock climber. Here he tackles La Nuit du Cauchemar (rated 8a/b) in Buoux, southern France.

Alain’s second urban climb in Paris put him on a collision course with Loïk Le Floch-Prigent. The enraged Elf CEO pursued Alain through the courts for several years until, in an ironic turn of events, he found himself in the dock.

Alain’s friends Thierry and Bambi wrestle with a security guard at the foot of TF1 before being overcome in a mass brawl.

Climbing the sheer rock face of L’Ange en Decomposition (rated 7a) in the Verdon Canyon.

Alain is arrested in Rio de Janeiro after climbing for the hit TV show Fantastico. His ascents in Brazil caused a media sensation.

The ancient Luxor Obelisk in Paris lacks height but has an almost insurmountable base which required a novel approach.

Conquering L’abominafreux (rated 8a) in Cornas marked Alain’s recovery from injury.

Tackling the Petronas Towers in Malaysia, then the tallest buildings in the world. Alain was afterwards imprisoned in an appalling jail.

Seemingly impossible to climb, the Blue Cross-Blue Shield in Philadelphia drove Alain to the point of obsession.

Alain nears the top of L’Ange en Decomposition in the Verdon Canyon.

The effect that climbing has on the hands. Right: Strict training ensures Alain is fighting fit for his climbs.

The early stages of the gruelling Polpot. The toughest rock climb of Alain’s career that almost ended in tragedy.

Smashed bones, a coma and the near loss of a hand have left Alain with crippling injuries and official disability status. Doctors continue to be stunned by his recovery.

Alain negotiates the maze-like lines of the Etisalat Building in Dubai.

Coming to grips with the varied angles of Hong Kong’s Far East Finance Centre and the Sydney Opera House.

Meeting Sheikh Nahyan, the Education Minister of the United Arab Emirates, and Britain’s Prince Andrew.

Alain is carried aloft by a crowd after scaling the Warsaw Marriott Hotel.

Alain climbs the Sabah Foundation in Borneo for charity, an event that drew over 15,000 spectators.

Chicago. An unforeseen deterioration in the weather meant that the Sears Tower was Alain’s most dangerous urban climb.

The clouds break, revealing the summit. The moisture made the glass tower incredibly slippery and perilous. Alain did not expect to survive.

The Golden Gate Bridge was a punishing climb not helped by the wind and swaying cables. This stunt earned Alain time in a San Francisco jail.

Alain’s youngest son Lucas learns to climb as soon as he can walk.

Taking on the IBM Building in Johannesburg, South Africa.

At this precise moment, I spring out as a gladiator entering the Colosseum. I must now be a warrior, stronger than the lion. My zodiac sign? Leo, and in the Chinese horoscope I was born in the year of the tiger — great omens! A few strides and I regain both my self-control and concentration. My heart stops galloping and fear retreats deep within me. My doubts are erased, pulverized, and nothing can deflect me from my path.

The shouts of the security guards reach me in fragments: distant, irrelevant, incomprehensible. Anchored between two one-way boulevards, JFK Avenue and Market Street, Blue Cross-Blue Shield occupies a strategic position in Philadelphia. I have already decided it is impossible to climb the two outer façades, as it would lead to disrupting peak-hour traffic. In court I would have difficulty defending my case. It is also impossible for me to consider putting the lives of pedestrians in danger if I were to fall. I have thus chosen to attack a rear-facing flank of the building over a covered car park.

I jump against the tower and make my first movements. I move clumsily, revealing my restlessness. But as I engage the second pane, I regain my balance and control. I push on, away from the group of security guards on their walkie-talkies, and make my way up this glazed structure. This technique of walking directly up glass is new for me and I focus on the adhesion of my feet to the panes. About 50 metres off the ground, with my soles pushing against the glass, my feet slide! Before I can react or attempt to save myself, they stop... to my huge relief. But then I feel dismay. There will be others like this between here and the summit. I pause to re-examine the surface and find a totally unexpected surprise — this geometrically precise structure is not regular. Though barely noticeable to the naked eye, it undulates a little here and there, perhaps explaining why certain panes are marginally cleaner than others: they might have received more soap and water.

At the 35th floor, I find a more difficult anomaly. The entire ledge here — the grip I have been using to propel myself upwards — is missing. There is only a flimsy silicone join, barely a bump against the panes. I am wary of placing my feet on this silicone, to say the least. I look around but have no other option, as when I had to hang off that clanking old air conditioner in Rio. At least there is a join, some sort of feature to play with. If this had occurred higher but without the join there would be no reversing. I take advantage of the pause to snatch a drink, suspending myself by a single hand from the middle of the fafade. Below are crowds of commuters and journalists. Apparently some people believed I was smoking a cigarette! How cool.

It is a mildly awkward posture and my supporting left hand begins to ache a little, distracting me enough that the bottle slips away from me. In my haste to catch it, I accidentally spray my right hand and the glass pane — and all around my feet — with my energy drink. Holy shit! As if the escalation was not precarious enough... Liquid, a lethal lubricant, trickles down the pane. I dry my hand against my body, as it would be impossible to restart climbing drenched like this. And I need to hurry, before my left arm starts to throb. I leave this deadly zone fast, in the hope that it will be okay. Without even thinking about it I place dampened slippers over the bumpy track of silicone and overcome this ledgeless obstacle to continue upwards. It must have been a very tricky move but I was so preoccupied with my accidental hosepipe effect that I didn't even notice it.

I gain several more floors and only then do I remember the missing ledge below. Strange, but it turned out to be fine. The smoked panes do not filter out what is going on inside the building and the deep blue surface acts as both mirror and window. The employees of the insurance company after which the building is named have already left for the day, except on one floor which still has its lights on. As I reach it, I see a chap studiously stooped over his desk. I bang on the window without really interrupting my progress. The man turns around. His face is a picture of utter shock, as if he had just seen a ghost. It is not exactly the right time for such a joke, but it lessens the pressure. Well, mine anyway. Humour is an escape valve in climbing just as it is in life. I keep going, and every now and then I take a look around. On the other side of the street, in a skyscraper of more classic design, I see people stuck to the windows of every floor. Hey guys, that is what economists would call a lack of productivity!

About 20 metres from the summit, one of the window panes has been opened and three figures appear. They are waiting for me. I realise that the escalation is nearly finished. Just like that, I suddenly feel very tired. The last ten floors, where the top of the building tapers inwards to a point, will not be necessary. The true summit is impossible unless I am dropped by winch from a rescue helicopter and such a finish, though technically possible, would not be desirable due to the downdraughts. No, this is good enough. I make another pane and approach the opened window.

"Hi!"

Greeting cops at the top of a skyscraper is one of my constant pleasures in life. I clamber through the window as they move in to arrest me. But before they react, I pull a flag out of my jacket emblazoned with the slogan Eagles beat Dallas, Julie's idea to win public support and hopefully soften the local justice chiefs. Philadelphia's American football team will be kicking off that very evening against Dallas. The helicopter has been filming me for a while now and records this moment for the evening news. At first, Julie had thought of honouring Princess Diana, but I had put an end to that idea at once. I did not want to hijack politics or tragedy in a way which could easily be interpreted as demagogic or at least inappropriate. The link with sport is much more suitable and effective. Even the cops smile beneath their bristly moustaches.

I give them my passport and picture postcards to prove that I am a professional rock climber and not a psycho or someone with suicidal tendencies. In my early days I used to climb without papers, thinking that anonymity would be my best protection. That was an error. Showing them who I am and that I know what I am doing reassures the police.

Handcuffs. Elevator. Exit. Cameras. Before the cop car takes off I wave my flag in front of the crowd. The car streaks away in a whirlwind, like something out of Starsky and Hutch. Invoking the fiery sporting allegiances of Americans cannot leave Philadelphia unmoved. I sit and enjoy the ride, but having not dared to stop for another drink since my squirting incident at the 35th floor, I am feeling a bit thirsty. I am used to handcuffs now and I succeed in getting my bottle out of my pocket and sipping from it. As I do this, the cuffs pop open at one of my wrists. Hmm... It is quite comfortable to sit in the back of a cop car unrestrained for a change. But on second thoughts, arriving at the police station hands-free is not such a good idea — cops really aren't too pleased if you keep pulling circus stunts and Houdini acts around them. I desperately try to put my handcuffs back on. It's easier said than done. There's a series of clicks as I wrestle with the cuffs but finally I manage to restrain myself on their behalf.

We soon arrive at the city's main police station. For once, the cops are nice. They simply go about their jobs, recording in minute detail the facts for their report. It will be the court's job to decide the gravity of my act and mete out the proper punishment.

"Are you the French Spiderman?" Rather than the usual lecture on the stupidity of my escalation, these guys ask for my autograph. In single file, they wait respectfully for me to sign my postcards. As usual the media has broadcast the images of the ascent across the whole country.

My cell door closes with a metallic slam. Stretched out on a blanket, I savour my hard-fought victory with a rare satisfaction. The technical difficulty of Blue Cross-Blue Shield was extreme and the level of commitment required was very high. All things considered, the climb went superbly well. My previous trip to the USA was to San Francisco, where almost everything had gone wrong. I had followed it up with a little illegal jaunt up the famous pyramid of the Luxor Casino in Las Vegas. While I was incarcerated I read the prison graffiti with interest and patiently engraved my name in enormous letters into the bench. At no time did I imagine the cops would not appreciate this kind of sculpture. A hulking woman twice my size, the worst type of person you can possibly meet in this man's world, discovered my hieroglyphs and erupted in fury, roaring so loud that I could not understand a word. I guessed what she was trying to say from her facial expressions and the way the whole cell vibrated as if the San Andreas fault had ruptured. But for God's sake, woman, shut up! I took my turn and abundantly offended her in French, armed with my most beautiful smile.

This time the cops seem polite and friendly and I hope that everything proceeds just as well with the courts. My experience with Philadelphia's justice system so far seems favourable. Apparently the most likely penalty is a fine accompanied by a night or two in prison, a mere administrative formality.

A clanking in the lock makes me jump. It's Julie and she is overexcited. Her enthusiasm is contagious but her tone alarmist. She too was called in for questioning during the ascent, betrayed apparently by electronic surveillance cameras. John had to go to the cops to bail her out, in the process revealing his connection. So the press were in on it! There's a scandal. Furious, the boss of NBC demands that John publicly explain himself during an exceptional press conference. John explains to the cameras that there was no premeditation on the part of NBC, and that his motivations were of an entirely private nature, Julie being his partner. It's all broadcast on the news and further complicates my situation. And since bail has not been set, I must stay in prison for the night. Tomorrow will be another day. I've had enough excitement anyway. My body seems to be adrift as I am washed over by waves of fatigue, sinking to the seabed of deep contented sleep.

A guard pulls me out of my dreams. Is it morning already? My muscles are heavy, aching. The night was not enough. Groggily, and with one eye open, they transfer me to another large cell where a group of policemen and prisoners are watching a news broadcast. All eyes are riveted to the screen. I then realise it is midnight, and after the adverts, the nightly news begins with images of my ascent. From the ground it looks pretty impressive to have climbed this featureless glass façade. My public applauds me warmly, and I thank them for their support. Praiseworthy congratulations indeed, but a few more hours of sleep, even on the knobbly board I have been given, is more appealing to me right now. With a few slaps on my back which almost topple me I shuffle blearily back to my cell for much-needed rest.

Five hundred and ten dollars. That's the price of my freedom. It's pretty cheap considering everything. Julie arranges for ABC to settle this amount in exchange for the scoop of my reactions and release at the police station.

Once I leave my cell, Rob, my lawyer and a friend of Julie, tells me more about my case and its modifications during the night. It has shifted from penal to criminal code which means it is no longer treated alongside minor misdemeanours such as traffic offences. Criminal code, I am told, is serious and this is where it gets nasty. After my brazen escapades in Chicago, New York, San Francisco and Las Vegas, the judiciary is angry and requires a punitive sentence... apparently of up to two years in prison! This is indeed bad news.

Since I have promised the scoop to ABC, I leave the premises with my face masked under my T-shirt, probably giving the impression that I am an ashamed and disgraced criminal. It doesn't matter though, there's time to talk to these guys later, so I forge through a journalistic melee and dive into a car. Once we are away, we look at the lawsuit. Rob is a specialist in penal lawsuits and yet he seems subdued by the dimension of the task. Reassuring... In spite of this sword of Damocles above my head, we decide to go out and forget about it all, gyrating in the city's nightclubs.

The news comes through — the criminal lawsuit will take place in three weeks. In the meantime, I return to France while leaving the country is still permitted. I admit that the idea of leaving the USA forever, to be sentenced in absentia and become a fugitive, did flash through my mind for a few seconds. Two years in jail is not something anyone would wish to fly back for. I can think of other places I would prefer to go to for the same ticket price. But though I am not a fan of some of their cops, I just love the United States. Few countries if any can offer me so many vertical adventures.

Before I get on the plane, Ted Simon, a famous lawyer, suggests taking on the case and defending me free of charge. According to Julie this is a great stroke of fortune. This brilliant man of about 40 is a pedigree lawyer with a glittering record, his reputation further enhanced by winning a lawsuit against the police of Singapore for their torture of an American citizen. As I fly over the Atlantic Ocean my imagination runs through all conceivable scenarios but I fail to find a definite solution to my predicament. At the kiosk at Orly Airport in Paris, I pass time by leafing through the newspapers. A name catches my glance, it's no less than Simon again. The American lawyer makes the cover of Le Monde, one of the most respected French newspapers. This guy must be good! His repute crosses the borders of the USA and reaches the shores of France. My imagination works overtime once more. Alain Robert and Ted Simon, a double act of impact!

In a few weeks I am back in America and back in court, facing a two- year prison sentence. The prosecutor is really going for it and the charges laid against me are drastic. With visible anger, the prosecutor accuses me of putting the lives of pedestrians in danger and disrupting law and order. Which lives had I put in danger by climbing over the concrete roof of a parking lot? And as for disrupting law and order, by choosing this rear fafade, neither of the main avenues had been closed to traffic, nor could drivers see me and become distracted. Against a man ofTed Simon's stature and acumen, these deceptive arguments quickly crumble. Simon tells me though that there is no way the court will let me off scot-free this time. As it turns out, a fine of $4,000 is enough to forget the dispute, a compromise I am happy to accept given the state of affairs a few weeks ago. With relief I exchange warm handshakes with Simon as the court dissolves.

In an unexpected twist, the boss of Blue Cross-Blue Shield makes a personal approach towards me, not with the aim of seeing me condemned but with an offer of sponsorship! Not long afterwards, the two of us visit the top of his building and I nip over the edge to show him how I did it. For an insurance company, the image of risk versus safety, of the guardian angel, is a powerful one. The severe charges laid against me came exclusively from the prosecutor, not from Blue Cross-Blue Shield, and discovering that this man wants to explore a partnership leaves me dreaming of new ventures. I have fought for freedom to pursue my path and Philadelphia has embraced it. The Liberty Bell will ring a little more clearly this evening.