9

SPIDERMAN

When you choose to reject the status quo and follow your heart, you gain an astronomical degree of freedom but it comes at quite a price. Contentment cannot be bought and sold. But essentially, by pursuing your dreams you risk a life of destitution. It may come as no surprise to hear that there aren't many jobs in the employment section of the newspaper for people who climb up the sides of skyscrapers. And while the prisons do occasionally feed and house you, no one would consider this a way of making a living. I too have to make ends meet but my way of life puts me well outside the system. In fact, very few professional rock climbers succeed in making a decent living off escalation — no more than twenty or so of us in France, a paltry number for a sport at which the French excel.

For a number of years, I have been earning from climbing, but how much do I have left over at the end of the year? Very little! Once my travel costs, international telephone bills, fines (these can be quite substantial sometimes) and lawyers' expenses have been totted up, tens of thousands of Euros have fluttered away.

I conduct the occasional motivational speech, and do a little instructing on the side, but these are nowhere near enough to support myself, let alone a family. Sponsorship remains my only real means of earning a living but it imposes certain constraints — constraints which are not always easily swallowed by rock climbers, usually individualists jealous of their freedom. To support oneself by escalation is paradoxical. By looking for the financial autonomy to free yourself from traditional work and pursue your calling, a vocation if you like, you lose a certain core freedom as well as some purity. Imperceptibly, sponsorship tends to urge us to deviate from our road, to gently push our journey off course towards the materialism we renounce. Commercialism and press relations ensures that the route of the professional rock climber is littered with pitfalls, especially if, like me, he has chosen an even more specialised niche where the media circus remains the only possible window through which people will see you and then move in to support you financially.

For me, the very principle of climbing for money is impure and tainted, and I am not especially comfortable with the idea. I am not very proud of what I have done commercially, but at the same time I disown none of it. There are times when you are roped back in by the material world, a world that many who live there would call 'the real world'. The real world? Everyone's reality is based on their own surroundings, circumstances and perceptions, and my reality is no less real than that of anyone else — a painter, a banker, a tramp or a child. Each of us has our own realities, our outlook and judgement being forged by our life experiences.

In those moments when you climb not for art, but for cash, you try to think positively of what this bizarrely gained money will allow you to realise. It can be distasteful but maybe you should not ask too many questions and just take what is offered. Because, ten years after your career, who is going to remember you? Who will meet your needs?

In France the artists have an applaudable system of unemployment allowances to support and nurture their work. But not so for us sportsmen. Representing France at the highest level, receiving high distinctions, awards and accolades, making the national anthem resound — all this sometimes leads to a medal, or a fax of congratulations on behalf of the highest dignitaries of the Republic, but financially, peanuts... I am not saying money should rule the sporting roost. Undoubtedly sport must not be corrupted by money. Sport must be pure! But at the end of the day, the price of bread stays the same for each of us. And for a sportsman or woman it can be a real struggle to pay the bills and feed ourselves or indeed the little mouths that depend on us. Sportsmen are not idle layabouts and we work hard and contribute to society. High-level sports impose demanding regimes for numerous rigorous years, years full of discipline and moderation, pounding away endlessly on the treadmill, thrashing in a pool, or gritting our teeth in the shade of a cliff.

Of course some sportsmen become superstars and earn fabulous wealth. French athletics star Marie-Jo Pérec has retired but how much of what she earned will support her now she is out of the public eye? She would never have amassed the riches of an extravagantly paid football player like Zinedine Zidane for instance. Of course the Zidanes and Beckhams of sport are few and far between. The rest of us have to be a little more realistic, but still we shouldn't have to live like monks.

It's generally accepted that a sportsman has around ten years to ensure his pension. This is all well and good if he is at the top of his game, but even if he reaches the award podium and finds himself second, financially he might just as well have been last to cross the line. Oh, I do not speak for myself. I am outside competition or contest. I am not going to ask for a pension from the state for deciding to dash up the outside of internationally famed architectural works, having disturbed the public and disrupted international diplomacy. I just want sports to be better supported, financially speaking, for the good of sportsmen as well as society. Sure, we get some nice slaps on the back sometimes. I was presented with an Olympic medal, for example. Juan Antonio Samaranch personally bestowed the medal of honour upon me on behalf of the International Olympic Committee. Everyone knows that rock escalation is not an Olympic discipline but the IOC was keen to acknowledge the sporting accomplishment of my solitary ascents. I choose to define myself as an outsider, as an extreme sportsman on the margins of sport, so this gesture profoundly touched me.

As proud as I was to receive the award, I flew back to France facing the same old bills. It may not be ideal but at least sponsorship gives me the opportunity to get paid for doing something I love to do, and fortunately I have a good relationship with several sponsors willing to connect their brands with my vertical events. Even though there have been a few conflicts of interest along the way I heartily thank them for this happy association which has run on now for most of my adult life.

But such attention does lead to some criticism from other climbers. They go up alone in the mountains and don't get the sponsorship or the headlines that I do, and I understand how that can be frustrating for some of them. Some of my detractors accused me of taking unnecessary risks for money, just to seduce financiers. At first, I was amazed by this. Deep in my heart, I know that sponsorship is purely a question of survival, but these criticisms resulted in people questioning the motives behind my climbing. I was suddenly put in a position where I had to defend and justify myself. The media are very happy when I create stories for them. But sometimes, with little to write about and a deadline looming, it may be easier for them and more interesting for their editors and readers to gossip about me or attack me. As the years have passed I have grown to understand that justifying myself, whether in light of critical remarks from the media or from other climbers, has never advanced things. We cannot prevent anybody from having a negative opinion of us. Often the whole affair is not about getting at the truth — it is more due to the fact that it is in their interests to make such comments.

So why do I waffle on about all this? Maybe to help exorcise the ghost of the dollar which haunted me in Singapore, an experience that posed this very dilemma…

After a month of very high-profile media exposure in Malaysia, the management of a famous Singaporean shopping centre asks me to perform a live climbing demonstration at the inauguration of their complex. The job description? Climb up and down their building four times a day, with a rope, for a particularly interesting fee. No risk, no expenses, no sweat. In brief, the chance of a lifetime. My initial reaction is positive and I respond accordingly. The sponsored climb cannot go ahead immediately however as there are all sorts of legal angles which must be looked at and tackled. These negotiations with the government end up lasting several months, as Singapore is not just any country.

At first, for me Singapore is only the name of a distant place, represented by wonderful towering architecture and a comfortable pay cheque. Negotiations eventually pave the way for a deal and my flight tickets arrive in the mail. I feel rather satisfied to have seized this opportunity because I hope I will have the possibility of pursuing a real escalation after the show. A nice cash injection will allow me to travel the world and do battle with other buildings, in South Africa perhaps, and to discover other horizons. My most memorable moments result from unexpected meetings connected to my ascents. I have met some amazing people when mixing in circles on the opposite side of the world.

As I pass through customs at Changi Airport I am greeted by my smiling hosts. And the reception is princely. A limousine sweeps in to collect me and I am checked into a suite in the best hotel in the city. Glowing with prestige, it is immaculately designed and put together with every convenience. Personally I would have preferred less luxury and a little more human warmth. But never mind.

This tiny city state is a modern and engaging metropolis, famed as a melting pot of Asian culture. Shiny and corporate, it has some of the toughest laws anywhere, coming down hard on criminals. The island state has some very tough rules and regulations, some of them legendary. Some proponents state that this tough line on law has produced a safe and harmonious society with crime rates that other countries can only dream of. Critics however say that living in Singapore is like being at school. Singapore canes vandals and passes legislation punishing its citizens for chewing gum, so hoping to obtain a licence to climb a building is like asking the headmaster if you can abseil out of the chemistry lab window!

It is no place for a hippy or a rebel but there is no denying that this is a very attractive, safe, orderly and friendly city. Okay, it is also not an urban myth that in Singapore it is actually illegal to walk around your own home naked, but how many countries are populated by people who are as honest as the Singaporeans? Later I would be told by my Singaporean friends that if you dropped a banknote on the floor, no one would pick it up, even if it appeared to have no owner. It sounded like idealistic patriotism to me but they assured me that this was indeed the case. So, to see if this was true, I dropped a banknote on the ground and stood back to see how long it would last before being plucked from the ground. How long would a reasonable sum of cash last on the ground in any country of the world? In France it might only last a few seconds, and surely the first person to notice it would snatch it with the speed and hunger of a chameleon's tongue. Stunned I watched on as dozens of feet walked by my free cash prize with not one individual stooping to collect it. I had assumed that I would be able to return to my friends and tell them that after a while someone had swiped it but eventually I grew bored of all this honesty and went back to reclaim it. Rather bizarrely I felt more than a twinge of shame in doing so.

So it was true. But then so are many of the other quirks about this pimple of a country. I have to say that Singapore is an amusing little place. While walking around town I saw imposing signs in toilets threatening a large fine if I did not flush after myself. How on earth would they know if I didn't flush the commode? I actually find it a little weird — these signs imply that I would leave excrement floating in the toilet bowl if it weren't for the edict of the state. Do we really need to be told such a thing? Other signs forbid rather obvious things, such as explosives on the metro, as well as more surprising objects such as durians, a rather odorous tropical fruit.

After freshening up I am escorted to the site of my escalation, which is not far away — but nothing is far away in this tiny country. At the edge of the Orchard Road shopping district, the Great World City Centre rises a measly 18 floors, somewhat ridiculous when compared to the other concrete arrows around the city. And from the summit of the shopping centre, I still have the impression that I am on the pavement, the skyline teems with such vertiginous towers! While inspecting the mall and thumbing through the insurance paperwork, an urge scales my spine and enters my brain. I have two days of exhibition climbing, but it should be possible to disappear and nip offto a more ambitious project. Having four million people perched on such a small plot of land forces developers to build upwards. Since this is one of the world's most modern cities, it is blindingly obvious that the island nation has much more to offer than this humble shopping centre.

Furthermore, climbing a building with a rope seems to me like a bit of a swindle. These poor people will come to see a real-life Spiderman, not a marionette hung by a rope from a miserable 18-storey building! Where's the thrill in that? I feel embarrassed at this situation. It demonstrates to me that with a handful of dollars, you can buy anything, anyone, even those who have the ignorance to believe in their own incorruptibility. If the charity show in Malaysia had perturbed me a little, the prospect of my Singaporean performance almost makes me sick. Why does the lure of money compel me to break the rules of solo climbing that I have imposed upon myself? Solo climbing is about you and nature, or in my case, architecture. When climbing you develop a very personal relationship with your environment. It is an absorption into your surroundings, a symbiosis. It may be described as a spiritual quest, the very antithesis of pursuing material gain. When did I begin to betray myself? Was this the price of success, this taming of my soul? I am not a circus animal, not a puppet, but a rock climber who has consciously chosen freedom! But now I find myself in a cage, eating from the hands of unknown people in suits who have bought me for two days. The softest pillows and quilts in the world cannot help me sleep through hours of guilty introspection.

It's time to climb and a new experience confronts me: six grim bodyguards arrive at my hotel! At first, I honestly believe it's a joke or a misunderstanding. But these Terminator dudes do not laugh at all. Hidden behind ebony shades, they play their action movie roles with aplomb. Permanently murmuring into their radios, they seem to have many grave concerns. I ask them if they have caught the marksman wanting to kill me. A bodyguard spins around, walkie-talkie poised to report an assassination attempt. I have to explain that it is just a jibe and it takes a while to calm him down. It is clear he doesn't find my quip especially funny. He switches back into 007 mode, checking for bugs and booby traps, speaking solemnly with his colleagues.

We leave the hotel as in a movie with me heavily protected as I step into my limo, just in case the doorman decides to pull out a revolver and blow me away, or the gardener is actually a sniper. Flanked by my army we make our way cautiously to the mall. I really wonder what is going on. This is ridiculous. I am just a normal guy heading to the shopping centre, not a Russian mafia boss arranging a rendezvous to sell weapons-grade plutonium. This pantomime is totally unnecessary but I play along with it.

A hundred metres from the mall, the first police cordon is in place, closing off the avenue. Traffic has been forbidden to ensure pedestrianisation — not because I might fall on someone and kill them, which is usually why they cordon off buildings when I climb, but because a good crowd and good press coverage is a must for the mall management. The publicity stunt is going according to plan, with all sorts of Singaporeans, especially families, crammed behind the barriers awaiting me. There is a good turnout; the advertising staff of the mall have organised the event well. Then it hits me that several thousand people are soon to be disappointed. It's a shame. I would have liked to have offered the good people of Singapore a much better spectacle than this.

A buzz of excitement runs through the crowd as we are let through and I exit the car 'covered' by my ultra-protective guards. I must admit I find it quite peculiar being protected by guards at the foot of a building, as I am more accustomed to being chased by them! A chill runs through me. Alain Robert protected by guards at the start of an escalation? Is this another nail in the coffin of my once untethered soul?

The performance can now begin. The first floor of the mall is made of featureless shop windows and cuboid pillars which are impossible to climb. So from the rooftop I attach my rope and throw it over the edge, then go down by the conventional elevator to ground level before preparing to commence the escalation itself. On the red carpet before the crowds I feel ashamed: ashamed to have tied my soul down with my own ropes, ashamed to have been corrupted. Remorsefully I pull myself upwards on the rope. Curiously, the public react with the normal fervour. As I climb upwards they wail and cheer and jump up and down. Making an ascent with a rope disappoints only me, it seems. Nobody else there seems aware of the enormous difference between a life-threatening solo and an escalation made with a rope. If they are aware, then they don't care. My feelings are mixed. Naturally I am relieved that the public is satisfied by the performance but I am also disturbed by this discovery. During my escalation it becomes clearer than ever that I climb solo purely for myself, as I always have, and not to please curious onlookers. The media attention, the crowds, the reaction of police, judges and fellow climbers are all irrelevant. The rope which scrolls past my eyes is an ethical problem only for me — no one else.

Of course, I make the summit! I descend the building again by a flight of steps, to a thunder of applause. Then for half an hour, I answer public and press questions, but never directly — the bodyguards and the police preventing any crowd surge, or the slightest personal contact. It is hopeless... What is the point of organising this PR exercise if the slightest personal exchange is not possible? The whole operation is a dazzling Singaporean contradiction. I melt away for a break and then return to the carpet and to new crowds. Every two hours, the escalation starts again in an identical way, with disorder and passion reined in throughout. Warm applause, crowd control, ropes.

Before the shopping centre show I had got in touch with a local lawyer to find out more about the exact risks I would incur if, inadvertently, I ventured up the magnificent high rise which had captured my imagination ever since my arrival — the OUB Centre. Standing proud at 280 metres, the OUB is equal to the maximum height permitted by the Singaporean Aviation Authority. It houses one of the region's biggest banks and remains one of the most majestic skyscrapers I have ever seen. The design is bold and unique — from the ground level an eight-storey cutaway floods light into the base of the building, gently opening onto Raffles Place and inviting one inside. The angular tower is composed of two triangular prisms separated by the most slender of gaps, giving the impression that it has been sliced down the middle with cheese wire. From almost any angle it looks like one structure; it is only close up that one can see the magnificent fissure running up it from foot to peak. And what a fissure for an urban climber!

It is immediately apparent that it is possible to climb the OUB Centre, but what about the punishment? My lawyer looks over the top of his spectacles as he delivers the answer — a minimum of three months' detention plus a caning. Not surprisingly, it's a harsh penalty, but too harsh I believe. I try to rationalise it but it would be impossible to take such a risk without clearing a three-month window in my diary beforehand to do the necessary time inside. I need to reflect and consider the effect on my family and whether I can afford such a luxury.

I admit that the idea of fighting against this polished state of limited liberties arouses my spirit. Poking this wasp's nest, just to gauge the reaction of the powers that be, motivates me enough to take the risk of being jailed. I have always had the conviction that it is in these kinds of tests that you define yourself. Living in luxury, dying in the same, none of that is my stuff. I need to partake in other matters, to change, to move. I do not want to ruminate over my regrets every evening, sit in the same armchair, coping with the misery of everyday bullshit. Some people will say that my approach to life lacks pragmatism and maturity, and that I try to live by proxy the heroic adventures seen in Marvel Comics. Maybe they are right. Others think that I take advantage of the system without accepting its rules and constraints. Well, perhaps I am not one for falling in line. But never have I encouraged the undoing of modern society, nor have I wished anarchy to fall upon it. I merely use it differently, but without playing the social misfit or the rebel. I am too old now to believe I can save the world. If I can succeed in building the life about which I have always dreamed, to have stuck to my guns and to have followed my dream, I will have succeeded.

And so, as the limo takes me back to Changi Airport, I make a decision. I shall return to Singapore for a duel with this famous high rise, simply because I want to. I must remain myself wherever I am and not be cudgelled into conformity by shadowy figures who tell us who to be and how to live. Our leaders are themselves just ordinary men and women like me and you, with no right to enslave or subjugate us. No system should prevent us from artistic expression, from poetry or enlightenment.

A year later I return, having cleared my diary for the next three months. I exit Raffles Place MRT Station and, as planned, I immediately get to grips with the 63 storeys of the glorious OUB Centre.

I slide my fingers into the generous fissure between the two halves of the OUB and push off the ground. The building is warm to the touch in the equatorial heat, since it is clad in a smooth aluminium alloy of battleship grey. I feel her stealth and prowess. She is unsinkable. My feet find the aluminium surface kind and supportive, offering significant resistance. This resistance underfoot is strong and reassuring and will save me the potentially draining effort of having to compensate with my arms.

Within seconds a few eager Singaporeans stop in their tracks and start pointing upwards — and of course, some not-so-eager ones start running around and yelling in panic. For me though this escalation is pure joy. Few buildings if any have offered such temptation, such a splendid gap to work with. Right now I forget that wandering vertically astray may lead to a caning. The threat of a state-sanctioned spanking tests and provokes me, but the task in hand potentially offers a far worse penalty. Despite enjoying myself I ascend swiftly as this type of escalation affords no rest — both arms must be in constant opposing tension and I calculate that I must reach the summit in less than an hour, before my forearms give out. I expect to make that time very easily but one can never be too relaxed about such things as there may be unexpected obstacles or difficulties on the way up. On this precise piece of architecture I would be surprised if there are any major problems, as I can see the crack clearly all the way up to the summit.

But as I travel up the cleft one such unforeseen obstacle does indeed materialise, and does so at the 21st floor. Windows have flanked my route all the way up, only a metre or so away. As the crowd claps me on below, one of the windows swings open and two cops lean out, blocking any progress. Regrettably I am very much like a funicular train travelling up a vertical railway, the fissure offering me only one dimension of movement. Derailment is inevitable. The game is up.

I climb through the open window into somebody's office and into the custody of the waiting cops. I am taken through the offices to the elevator, past the huddled spectators and placed in a cop van. To be honest I am expecting the worst now, especially after Malaysia. In Singapore the people are pretty straight and preoccupied with making money. Not in a million years will my enterprise make its way onto anyone's pie chart. Climbing up the side of their nice important building and disturbing board meetings, or office workers attending to the well oiled production of Singapore dollars, will most likely rock the boat a little.

What will St. Singapore's Secondary School do about my indiscretion? I have been a naughty boy and I can expect a caning from the headmaster and several months' detention... Was it worth it? I think so, though I would be lying if I said I was looking forward to it.

Singapore is blessed with low crime rates for a very good reason. In Singapore the cane is not a harmless schoolyard spanking designed to make kids cry. The prisoner is bent over a wooden horse and strapped down with his buttocks bared to the prison guard. Padding may be put around the kidney or genital areas to protect the offender from permanent harm. Depending on the crime, the secured prisoner is struck a set number of times across the buttocks with a rattan cane. This cane is much heftier than those used in schools in the old days, and by law it must be over a metre long and half an inch thick! The guards who exact the punishment are trained to swing their canes at a speed of at least 160 kilometres an hour with an impact force of at least 90 kilograms. Multiple strikes almost always tear the flesh, leading to bleeding and bruising, and sometimes scarring. The pain is described by those who have endured it as 'beyond excruciating' and some men have actually passed out during the canings. Caned prisoners typically cannot sit, wear shorts or sleep on their backs for two weeks or longer afterwards. There are many documented cases where prisoners have described how they could not walk unaided out of the room afterwards, and that the canes were bloody with bits of skin stuck to them after the thrashings.

My buttocks tremble at the prospect. All in all it sounds terrible. As a foreigner, can I expect to be treated differently? It seems not. A few years ago a Hong Kong student was jailed for several months and received twelve strikes of the cane. And famously, despite enormous international publicity and huge pressure from abroad, American teenager Michael Fay was caned and also jailed for vandalism. Even the intervention of President Clinton didn't much help Fay, who in the end had his number of lashes reduced as a 'gesture' from six to four. What Malaysia did to my posterior was most unpleasant but what will Singapore do?

I am fingerprinted and go through the usual processing and am taken to the lock-up. Despite the shared border with Malaysia, and many cultural similarities, I am pleased to find that the prison and treatment is far better than the hole I was placed in when I was imprisoned in Kuala Lumpur. It's not good, but at least it is sanitary. The judiciary, immovable and severe, I expect will be another matter.

But as the day progresses I discover I am in for quite a surprise. The prosecutor visits me in my cell and gets down to business. She tells me that I am well known in Singapore for helping to promote local businesses, and they know all about my climbs around the world. It seems they also know of some of the work I had done for charity. She declares that my escalation was an offence under Singapore law. And then she tells me I am not to do it again. She leans forward and tells me to heed this warning, for next time they will definitely prosecute me and any punishment dished out will be stiff. That is all. I am free to go. The prosecutor collects herself and leaves.

I am stunned. Is that it? I was mentally and physically prepared for so much worse. Rather surprisingly, the day ends very well for me with a fair and reasonable reaction on the part of the Singaporean authorities. In actual fact Singapore, so often criticised abroad for its draconian laws and austere judiciary, has ultimately turned out to be more lenient and sensible than just about any other country I have been arrested in. Three months in prison waived... and my buttocks have been spared! I spring out of the station a free man. Feeling fortunate and blessed, I take in the humid equatorial air and exhale in joy and relief. I really can't believe it. Quite literally, the prosecutor has saved my ass.

People often ask why I do such a thing as risk being jailed or caned, why I willingly walk into confrontation with the authorities, or why I relish the opportunity to put myself in life-threatening situations. I am not entirely sure, as there are a myriad of emotions and principles involved, but certainly at or near the core of it is that I enjoy a bit of mischief. The spirit of revolution and disdain for authority runs deep in the French national character and I guess my psyche has a larger slice of it than most. One of my most daring rock climbs — the 'Night of the Lizard' — illustrates well this impish spirit.

The Night of the Lizard is the name given to a particularly exhilarating and treacherous route up a cliff in Luberon in southern France. It is ranked at 8a+. For those unfamiliar with rock climbing, an 8a+ is one of the most extreme climbs you can do, a simply fantastic ascent only for the fittest, the most technically gifted and the most experienced. An 8a+ also ranks as highly dangerous and demands great reserves of physical and mental strength, requiring an absolutely flawless performance from the athlete. And of course, using climbing equipment such as a rope is the usual way to do it! It goes without saying that taking on a climb in this category solo is a matter of life and death.

The Night of the Lizard was not unknown to me, as in my crazy youth I had already ascended this cliff in an academic manner on my rope. My knowledge of the route meant I calculated the chance of getting to the top alive, if I were to attempt climbing it without ropes, was quite reasonable.

Bit by bit, the desire to go solo up this magnificent 20 metres of calcareous convexity had begun to consume me. The Night of the Lizard fascinated me despite or maybe because of the fact that the final section is as smooth as a pane of glass. The face of the Lizard is almost mathematically convex, as if it had been cut by machine tools. Over the years it has gained a glossy and shiny sheen due to the scrambling hands and feet of slipping climbers. Only the gentlest pockmarks give the surface any texture. The most challenging part of the vertical zone is devoid of foot grips and can be traversed only by using two ridiculous hand grips, flared holes which cannot hold more than the first phalanx of two fingers. Moving here is akin to towing one's entire body by the hollow of a teaspoon up a vertical cliff side.

In spite of its modest height compared to my city ascents (20 metres does not compare with 400 metres or so) the Night of the Lizard is an immense climb of the most challenging technical nature and it does not forgive a mistake. A fall from this height onto the chaos of mixed rocks below is more than enough to end everything. There is no doubt at all that realising this climb rope-free will invest me in the most exclusive club of international solo rock climbers. I resolve to attempt the Night of the Lizard unaided, and bit by bit I prepare myself for the extreme challenge.

The day before the climb, the nerves start setting in and I grow restless and pensive. I know I can succeed but obviously I don't know if I will, and I also understand what failure will mean. As I pace around my home I decide to give the photographer accompanying me on this assault a phone call to inform him that at the foot of the cliff I may give up. My life is more important than a set of photographs, even if we both hope the day will provide some eye-popping images. Obviously the photographer is conscious of this uncertainty and he seems to fully understand.

A good photographer strives to be a fly on the wall, to be anonymous and invisible to his subject, and fortunately for me I am with a real pro. I find photographers to be completely different to directors of either film or television who are always instructing me what to do as if I were an actor, sometimes oblivious that they are asking me to do things which are impossible, inconvenient or highly dangerous. Control freaks? Maybe not quite, but additional outside pressures prevent me from attaining perfect concentration. A solo of this level is a conflict between me and the cliff, and nothing must disrupt the serenity of this decision.

The next day, I leave my home and head out to face this 8a+ in Luberon. The photographer chats with me amiably, pretending he is not trying to settle my nerves. Conversation is light and optimistic but at the forefront of my mind is the daunting cliff. The Night of the Lizard has devoured many a climber wise enough to scale this monster with ropes. No one has been foolish enough to take it on solo.

As I get out of the car I battle to focus and control myself. But as we approach the foot of the climb, my dread suddenly evaporates into the clear blue sky. Why? A new and distracting problem appears — a German climber is up there tackling the cliff. With the route occupied there is little we can do except kick around, rest and wait a while.

More than an hour goes by. The sun gradually moves across the sky. The face will soon be truly impossible to climb solo! Adhesion to the rock is distinctly superior in the shade, while the slumbering cliff still breathes the coolness it has stored from the night. Impatiently I watch the German climber ponderously inch his way along the cliff side, in the methodical manner of his brethren. Not surprisingly he is fully kitted and equipped and anchored securely by his rope, his red helmet occasionally scraping the rock as he cautiously (and wisely) checks his position and fiddles with his karabiner. He makes hesitant attempts, sometimes abandoning them for a while before moving onwards. From grip to grip, every two or three movements, he takes a breather and rests on his rope. Judging by his movements and his progress I don't think he will be able to make it, especially the formidable final stages.

Yet more time passes. The sun continues to creep across the sky and the sunbeams approach the face. I am running out of time. I pace around, tensely aware that I cannot wait for the German to finish if I am to climb today. At the last minute, as the first sunbeam grazes the edge of the cliff, I shout up to ask him if he can remove his rope just for a minute, while I make my way up the cliff. Half cooperative, he removes it with a pout which does little to mask his lack of enthusiasm. Obviously this guy does not know me and cannot imagine that I am going to make a solo on the very route he has been wrestling with all day. The photographer, who has been kitted up for a while, now hangs a third of the way down the cliff, waiting for me in silence. I scrape the soles of my slippers under my thumbnail. Optimal adhesion. No obstacles. I am ready. Nearby, the German lad is looking at me, behaving superior and cool, as if he had just donated his balls to me on a platter.

I pounce out of the blocks and fly up the face with the intensity of a startled squirrel. The first part of this almost impossible climb is a long section with its own uncertainties and difficulties, but with a focussed effort I make it through. On the middle section I have to pull off a quite incredible movement where I must scale across to the left with my foot and finger pressed hard into the slenderest of grips. But the worst is yet to come: the smooth, flat, unpredictable exit.

I pass the photographer as his camera whirls and clicks frantically. I am entering the curved section and the cliff now starts to overhang, making tremendous demands on my body. I must maintain my grip on the cliff face through these tiny points of contact as gravity pulls me not only downwards, but outwards and away from the cliff.

I catch the teaspoon-sized hollow and insert as much of my two fingers into it as I can, bringing my feet up high in the hope of being able to push against this featureless surface to make the final grip. Although I have already given every step of this climb my maximum commitment and concentration, I need to double my efforts here. I take a deep breath and aim at the final grip. My strain is at an absolute maximum as I reach upwards, and then both my feet start to slide! A millisecond later I squeeze my abdominal muscles and lock my back, hanging exclusively from my two fingertips above the jumble of jagged boulders below. The skid of my slippers is arrested before I am claimed by Newton's laws and the graveyard of Valence. For a split second it could go either way. The exertion is truly phenomenal but in a light-headed and dizzy state, without the time to be afraid, I reverse the slide and steel myself for the final grip.

I will only get one chance to get it right. I pull upwards with all my might... it is only inches away, millimetres away. and I catch it! I pull myself upwards and exit the cliff. I have made it!

Almost overwhelmed, I collapse panting at the top, my head spinning with joy and also with low levels of oxygen due to the effort I have expended, especially at the end. I almost pass out but manage to exchange grins as wide as the Verdon Canyon with the photographer. The canyon is truly beautiful, the sky, the sun, the brush, the breeze. It is just so good to be alive!

Overcoming the Night of the Lizard is one of the greatest successes of my entire career. I can tell you that my penultimate move was very, very extreme. Some of the best rock climbers in the world have fallen from this section, and they climbed with ropes. Doing it solo was unthinkable, unbelievable, and I successfully managed it!

Later, the photographer tells me of the utter jaw-dropping bewilderment of the other climber, dismayed by my escalation! Dangling from his rope, the red-helmeted German throws his hands down in frustration, an action that the photographer sneakily captures. I guess I can understand how he feels. Despite all his efforts, he is unable to complete the climb — then someone comes along and asks him to move his rope, and shoots past him with only a bag of chalk for equipment. Poor guy, it was really too much for him.

The famous red-and-blue costume is only half finished. The costume makers need to add a few things to it, such as web patterns and a spider on the chest. But already it emits an aura of invincibility. I like it. The fitter chats with me in his thick Spanish accent, joking about life and politics.

I am here in Venezuela due to an invitation from the hugely popular TV show Super Sabado Sensacional. This five-hour variety show is broadcast at peak times on Saturday nights and is perhaps the flagship of the television channel Venevision. It takes well over half the viewing audience in Venezuela and is broadcast internationally across South and Central America, the Caribbean and the United States. The typical fare is family entertainment with musicians, international celebrities, comedians, magicians, daredevil stuntmen and various other glitzy performances. For South American TV executives, a guy who scales tall buildings without ropes obviously fits the bill. A decent tower in Caracas has been selected and they have negotiated a climbing licence.

Skilled in the art of sensationalism, Venevision asked for my measurements while I was still in France. Why? Because they want this Spiderman guy to make a big splash across the airwaves. They want me to look the part and are making me a Spiderman suit.

The Theatre of Caracas' costume department has made me a close-fitting costume of Lycra for maximum mobility. The fitter asks me to try it on. As soon as I slip into it I feel myself transforming, my alter ego surfacing. yes, this feels good, this feels right. There is one problem though, and it is quite a big one. When I slip the hood of the famous costume over my face the lights go out.

"You like it, Alain?" asks the costume maker with a smirk, a smirk I can only hear and not see. Of course I don't want to be rude, and I try to respond as amiably as possible, but the costume has a major flaw that needs to be addressed. I give my muffled but frank response.

"It's very nice. But how do you expect me to climb this building?"

"You can move okay? It fits nicely, huh?"

"Yes, it fits. But I can't see anything. And I can't breathe!"

My hands claw at my nostrils, eyes and mouth concealed inside the Lycra. It is impossible to even walk across the room. I feel like I am in some sort of bondage hood, a gimp mask or something equally restrictive. Only tiny dots of light make it to my deprived retinas and every time I attempt to inhale I suck taut Lycra into my nose and mouth. I flounder across the room, colliding noisily with furniture. The offer of a costume was very kind but I am exasperated. Am I supposed to climb a building in Caracas blind?

"How can I climb like this? This is. this is shit!" I lament sightlessly.

The fitter seems to grasp the problem and guides me back towards a chair. He parks me in it and helps me regain access to daylight and oxygen. As I return to my senses I note thankfully that the guys can see my point, and they set about making some holes in the mask.

When I return for the second fitting, things are much better — I have holes for both eyes following the contours of the Marvel Comics character and additionally, and somewhat importantly, there is a hole from the tip of my nose to my mouth so I can breathe. It doesn't look exactly the same as the real Spiderman's mask but it is a vast improvement in practical terms. I still have problems with the zip at the back — it runs from the top of my head down to my waist, making it hugely difficult to put on and take off, especially if I need to remove or replace my mask while hanging off the side of a building. But anyway it looks good, and maybe I can make some wardrobe changes later on, for very soon I am going up a building. Everything is legal and stage-managed and I need to scale the building live on television before millions. I must climb one of a pair of identical towers which are the highest in Latin America. The Parque Central Torre is an attractive stack of 56 storeys standing 221 metres tall.

On set, all looks good. As in Brazil I must climb according to the broadcasting schedule but at least this time we don't need to wait for another programme to finish. The escalation starts a lot less chaotically. Cameras roll and images go out to the hemisphere. Spiderman lives!

I get off to a cracking start and to great enthusiasm from the assembled crowd. I ascend steadily as I explore my relationship with the Parque Central Torre. The climb turns out to be technically modest, but I take my time making it to the summit to make a show of it for the cameras. I feel pleased that all over Venezuela, families are enjoying this entire climb live on air, that in this little moment in time I am making millions of kids smile in this corner of the world.

The reception I get from the audience during my interview afterwards as conquistador of Parque Central Torre is rapturous — I am treated like the real superhero! The timing could not be better, as with the impending release of the first Spiderman movie, cinemas are filled with enticing trailers for the upcoming Hollywood blockbuster. I request a second mask that I can wear just on my face, that can be pulled off separately for comfort and ease, and the friendly costume guys kindly oblige. Back at the theatre I admire my suited reflection in the mirror. The second mask is much better, much more practical. And like a real superhero I now have a costume I can whip on when duty calls.

Although I prefer to climb in my own choice of clothes, without the restriction of a costume and wearing fabrics after my own heart such as my nice lizard-skin, climbing as Spiderman is great fun. The coverage of my escalation in Caracas is very positive and spreads far beyond Venezuelan borders. Everyone loves the sight of a real-life Spiderman on a building.

I continue to climb in my own clothes throughout 2002, as the blockbuster film is released, but every now and then I don the heroic costume for a bit of a laugh. With the movie out and retailers churning out toys, T-shirts and other movie spin-offs, there is a surge of interest in the character. The new interest leads to a few calls — not for me, but for Spiderman! Spiderman is very popular it seems, much more so than I am!

One nice opportunity comes up in Puerto Rico, a US territory which also receives the weekly Super Sabado Sensacional TV show, and a place where people remember the Caracas climb with that Spiderman guy. So when I get their call, an invitation to fly to San Juan on the little Caribbean island for a fundraising gig, it is just too good to turn down. Without a moment's hesitation I book my ticket and board an airplane for the balmy capital.

Wearing my famous suit I crawl up a building in front of the local media and a keen crowd which includes hundreds of delighted kids. This climb is legal and fully supported by the community as we are doing it to raise funds for a cash-strapped children's hospital run by wonderful, dedicated staff. Most of the little boys in the hospital are orphans or abandoned, and many are physically or mentally handicapped. The day after my climb I visit the boys in my Spiderman costume — and they are absolutely ecstatic. I prance playfully around in my costume, shake their hands, joke and fool around. I will never forget the expressions on their faces. It was a marvellous day.

The following year Spiderman gets another call, this time from a potential sponsor in the United Kingdom, and their request is a little different. This call comes from the British and Irish satellite television channel BSkyB. The company tells me that one of their channels, Sky Box Office, will soon air the British television premiere of the Spiderman movie, and they would like a little publicity for their broadcast. I ask a few questions, and as usual the sponsors do not wish to involve themselves legally in any escalation, but they do offer a nice fee. So I head to London and find an innovative building: the Lloyds Building at one Lime Street in the financial district, a district known rather confusingly in the UK as the City of London.

The Lloyds Building immediately reminds me of the Centre Georges Pompidou in Paris, another structure which appears to have been built inside out. Features which are ordinarily housed inside have instead been placed on the exterior of the building. The lifts, the staircases, the piping and electrical conduits are all on the outside to free up the interior and also, of course, to make an artistic statement. To me it looks like someone has dissected a building like an animal, exposing the veins and organs for all to see. It is also rather reminiscent of the industrial minimalism of an oil refinery. Either way, with all these features stuck on the outside of the building, it is extremely accessible to the urban climber who has lots of lovely pipes, brackets and props to hold onto. This will be my third climb in London. I made two attempts to climb what was for a while the tallest building in Europe, the Canary Wharf Tower. My first attempt to climb Canary Wharf, or technically speaking, one Canada Square, was in 1995 and it was successful — but my second attempt, just six months prior to this attempt on the Lloyds Building, was thwarted when I got to the three-quarters mark but was bludgeoned into submission by the cold and pervading rain.

This morning I have better luck with the British weather and I get off to a good start with the spring sun on my back, a little after the employees of the insurance giant have settled down at their desks. In my Spiderman costume I vault easily up the side of this mass of pipes, struts and beams, though not as nimbly as the somersaulting and spring-loaded character in the movie.

The escalation is very simple and of course with such an abundance of glass I am spotted very early. Soon I see security guards emerging from the building, looking none too pleased, with walkie-talkies pressed to their lips. Office workers are popping out of their chairs as if a multitude of toasters were all going off in the open-plan offices. Many of them point and I get a few waves and thumbs-up.

The press, obviously tipped off by my sponsor — which is after all a television channel seeking maximum publicity — are on the scene in no time at all. Cops too are there in a flash. The Lloyds Building is a very interesting climb which allows me to pull off all manner of moves. I make the summit and give a wave to everyone below, and then descend this unusual building to the bottom. I am arrested by the police at the foot of the building for 'causing a public nuisance'.

"Hey, this is not a nuisance, it is entertainment! If you want to arrest people who are causing a nuisance, then arrest those noisy city boys who shout into their mobiles on the train, or maybe those people who allow their dogs to shit on the streets for us all to step in. That's far more of a nuisance. People like what I do!"

Well, people who are not in uniforms like it. The cops are having none of it and I am taken to the station where as usual I have my details taken down, my prints and photos taken.

And something new — they take a sample of my DNA! I am surprised that of all places this should happen in England. Why have they taken my DNA? I have been arrested, sentenced, fined and jailed all over the world and no other country has done this, even the most authoritarian lands or those with less than ideal attitudes towards human rights. It's a new and worrying development for civil liberties.

The London cops are not too happy about my climb and I am held in a cell overnight. The doors clang shut and I have to spend the night in jail in my Spiderman costume, which is not too cool, and then the next morning I am taken to court.

I stand before the judge dressed as Spiderman and I am fined for my caper up the side of the Lloyds Building. I am also told that if I climb again in the City of London I will get a £50,000 fine! Fifty thousand pounds? Are you serious? I would have to rob the Bank of England to pay that off! It makes me laugh a little, but all in all I note that the authorities in Britain take a pretty tough line with my stunt, and they do not dismiss the case out of hand. Nor do they see the climb for what it is — a guy climbing up the side of a building dressed as Spiderman for a bit of fun and publicity. And in actual fact it is not even my publicity.

The political mood seems to have changed in the UK over the past few years and maybe they are getting a little paranoid over there. But anyway the good news is that I am not jailed and I am free to go.

The escalation makes a big splash in the newspapers and on television, and BSkyB have the scoop they wanted. The jaunt also does me no harm at all in terms of future sponsorship. I return to France via the Channel Tunnel with my Spiderman costume in my suitcase for when I need it again.

I wish to continue climbing as Alain Robert and do not want to tie myself too closely to this powerful and iconic costume. But every now and then I will jump into it, for a contradictory blend of anonymity and celebrity. Whenever I don the mask I become the legend, the man without a face, the superhero. An ascent as Spiderman is always a blast. But in a way I lose myself. If I continue to climb purely as Spiderman and not as Alain Robert, I may forget who I really am. What you wear can dramatically change your identity, the way others perceive you, and also your sense of self. I need to remind myself who I really am…

Who am I? Do you really want to know? I'm the real Spiderman!