On Sunday, I watched from my home in the US as a man in a red T-shirt clung to the side of my birth city’s most recognizable silhouette. Alex Honnold’s 91-minute, ropeless ascent of Taipei 101 was a global spectacle, but for those of us in the diaspora, it felt deeply personal.
With most of my family in Taiwan, seeing our skyline broadcast live was not just about athletic endurance. It was about how a landmark designed to withstand typhoons and earthquakes became a stage for a high-stakes gamble with mortality.
Taipei 101 was not designed for climbing. Its “dragons” — the steel overhangs representing good fortune — were architectural flourishes meant to be admired from street level. Yet, these features became the crux of Honnold’s ascent, demanding a level of creativity and brute strength that transformed ornamentation into a vertical obstacle course.
The question is: Why do millions want to watch a man who might fall? Psychologists suggest that “high-sensation seekers” such as Honnold possess a unique neurochemistry allowing for intense focus where others would panic.
However, that explains the climber, not the audience. They watch, because visceral awe is increasingly rare. Honnold himself suggested that such feats serve as a reminder that “time is finite” and should be used in the best way.
For 91 minutes, Taipei 101 was arguably the most-watched building on Earth. This visibility carries soft-power dividends, projecting an image of a city that is organized and confident enough to host a complex global production.
The building’s management reflects a cosmopolitan openness — a willingness to let a landmark be used in ways its designers never envisioned. However, awe and anxiety are two sides of the same coin. For many Taiwanese, pride in our home’s prominence coexists with a visceral concern: Is any spectacle worth the possibility of a live catastrophe?
This is where Taipei can lead the conversation on how urban adventure is regulated. The city’s response should go beyond counting views and use this as an educational tool. Honnold’s preparation — months of training and roped test climbs — illustrates the discipline behind the viral feat.
What children should learn is that nothing about it was improvised. It is important to emphasize discipline over daredevil mythologizing. Furthermore, this event serves as a stress test for people’s imagination. If a climber can turn a financial tower into a global storytelling platform, what else can Taiwanese do with their skyline? Can they use these icons for sustainability, public art or science in ways that do not hinge on the possibility of disaster?
As Honnold reached the summit, a child watching reportedly asked if the steel dragons would breathe fire. They did not, but for a few moments, a skyscraper became something more than glass and steel. It became a site of collective wonder at what one person can achieve with preparation and skill. Taipei 101 remains a stoic sentinel of the city’s skyline, but we now know its dragons can be ridden, and that our cities are not just places to live — they are mountains to be climbed with care, respect and a bold sense of what is possible.
Y. Tony Yang is an endowed professor at George Washington University.
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