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"There is always the shit-happens factor," Tyler says. "You can do all the preparation in the world. Occasionally, shit just happens."
Tyler is the kind of guy who makes shit happen.
Having been thwarted at Skies, Tyler and one of his friends, "Corey," drive north through a spitting rain. They park next to one of downtown's taller buildings, and Tyler gets out and rattles a revolving door. It's dusty from the construction going on in the building's lobby, and it's locked at the bottom. A deadbolt has been slid into the floor. With the right crowbar, the door looks like it would swing open.
"I could get it open if you want me to," Tyler tells Corey. "You want me to?"
Instead, they walk behind the building, where puddles collect in the low spots in the pavement crushed by delivery trucks. The alley is soaked, but well lit.
"This is our alley," Corey says. They spot a fire escape that could give them access. But then they spot something else.
"Hey, dude, security camera," Corey says.
"Good eye," Tyler replies. "Let's keep moving."
The men walk a block or two. At another intersection, they stop to eye an office building. There's a wide window-washing rig perched on top of a skywalk that connects the building to a parking garage. It would be easy to climb out of the parking garage to the roof of the skywalk and use it to get to the window-washing rig, parked there like an idling car.
"It's been there all summer long," says Corey, who works downtown.
"Look at that landing area you've got," Tyler says, gesturing toward the intersection.
But the two men reason that the building, which holds a bank, would likely have heavy security, perhaps even motion sensors on the roof. They shuffle back to the original building, where Tyler rattles the door some more. "You're going to have to break it," he says.
"Cop!" Corey whispers as a police cruiser drives past to the north. The men try to look inconspicuous.
The building is going to be part of the downtown renaissance. It's being converted to high-dollar apartments, part of a citywide effort to make downtown a 24-hour destination. But for now, downtown is still mostly dead at night, and the building is a target for BASE jumpers.
It could be done. The men have their rigs in the car. The trunk is packed with a survival kit of sorts: BASE-jumping parachutes, duct tape, helmets, an aircraft map with tower heights, mini-digital camera, two-way radios, a blue light to toss from the top, a utility knife and a pry bar.
But it's raining just a little. They aren't sure about the wind. And there is no ground crew, no one to drive the getaway car. No one except the Pitch.
More than a year later, Tyler, two men and a woman are standing on top of the same building.
They'd called late. By the time a reporter can arrive, the jumpers have already made their way to a high ledge.
Later, they won't say how they got past the barriers that had worried them earlier, but a videotape they play shows them moving past yellow construction tape and climbing stairs.