Step by step to the top of Lotte World Tower: Not as easy as 123

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Step by step to the top of Lotte World Tower: Not as easy as 123

Published: 26 Apr. 2025, 07:00 Updated: 04 May. 2025, 15:13

Audio report: written by reporters, read by AI

The start of the ″Sky Run″ at Lotte Tower. [TOM MCCARTHY]

[GIVE IT A GO]

What better way to spend a perfectly sunny spring day than a preposterous indoor torture session?

This was what I told myself as I stood in the middle of Lotte World Tower plaza, staring up at a 123-story monument to a potentially monumental mistake on my part. Everyone else in my immediate vicinity seemed eager to risk irreparable damage to their lower appendages; some obviously serious runners had taped up their legs like they were about to run the London Marathon, and not the fun one with costumes.

The morning had begun like any other: I'd woken up, made coffee and contemplated my life choices. There had been no shortage of mistakes to rue — but one, in particular, had caught up with me today. That would be signing up for the “Sky Run,” a hike up all the stairs of Lotte World Tower, the sixth-tallest skyscraper in the world — a total of 2,917 steps.

I'm always eager for a calorie deficit, but it took me until I reached the Lotte World Tower plaza in Songpa District, southern Seoul, to remember that I am also acutely afraid of heights.

A towering monument to a possibly monumental mistake on my part. [TOM MCCARTHY]

The actual race, which pitted teams and individuals against each other in a time trial up an emergency staircase, had concluded by the time I arrived, and the organizers were now gearing up for the “casual race,” which I had entered. Participants in the proper event were posing with their medals, and no one seemed to be in critical condition, which instilled in me some sense of assurance. People milled around the plaza until the air filled with giddy excitement as a crew of firefighters in full bunker gear — a somewhat common sight at events like this that began as a tribute to the first responders of the terrorist attacks in New York on Sept. 11, 2001 — waltzed into the center and posed for cameras, press and civilian alike.

The firefighters were quite the hit in the plaza. [TOM MCCARTHY]

After I signed in, I received a wristband on which the event coordinator wrote my blood type — no mention of any option to sign a “do not resuscitate” form. Then I was handed a pack with documents absolving the organizers of any legal responsibility (probably — I didn’t read them), a shirt and a runner’s number. As fate would have it, I got my lucky number: 3,497.

I was called over to the starting line and found myself queuing with a group of police officers who were carrying placards promoting the Korean version of the United States' DARE, which ironically gave me a strong urge to ingest a fistful of performance-enhancing drugs.

My lucky number. What are the odds? [TOM MCCARTHY]

As I was corralled toward the front, I saw some parents getting hyped up with their kids ahead of me. The notion that this feat was achievable for a child prompted me to quote a man known for taking on absurd challenges, albeit from a seated position in a barely roadworthy car: “How hard could it be?”

Nothing for it, then, as I set off and queued the Bruce Springsteen. I bounded up the first 10 or so floors, as if I had indeed been “Born to Run,” before realizing that was an ill-advised approach and settling into an easier pace. The steps melted away as I ascended, floor by floor, in a sort of trance brought on by the liminality of the uniform column of stairs, passing families with young children, a pair of elderly friends holding hands and a group taking their time as they conversed in German.

What did I agree to? [TOM MCCARTHY]

One thing I had not considered was the nature of an emergency exit: designed to be insulated from smoke or toxic fumes, it was incredibly stuffy, with minimal — though I’m sure code-compliant — ventilation. The only circulation came from a central air system pumping out a mildly tepid breeze every four landings. Not that I could get at them; each vent was occupied by someone holding their shirts open above it to make a balloon of relief.

Every 20 floors, we were funneled through emergency doors into service corridors containing water and medical stations. Event staff shouted words of encouragement and remained vigilant for signs of distress in passing participants. They were reinforced by one-person cheering squads every three or four floors, waving plastic hand-shaped noisemakers to boost sweat-soaked trekkers.

As the floor count rose, so did the number of participants struggling or taking breaks on the stairs, with the sound of one man dry-heaving echoing in the stairwell for a good 10 minutes. I, myself, wasn’t doing so hot as I reached the halfway point between the 61st and 62nd floors. The socket in my mouth, where I had just gotten the base for a dental implant, started to throb, mirroring the hearts of the participants who had laid eyes on the firefighters in the plaza, and I wondered if this little jaunt qualified as the strenuous exercise my dentist had repeatedly warned against as he drilled into my face.

The water stations became more and more crowded the further up I went, with more and more participants procrastinating on restarting. [TOM MCCARTHY]

People were dropping like flies as I climbed higher and higher, dotting the stairs and landings. I began passing firefighters who had a 15-minute jump on me, drenched in sweat and probably wishing their air tanks were actually full of oxygen. Some parents were clearly on the fence between bailing on the challenge to accommodate their crying kids or carrying them up 20 or so floors. I found myself relying more and more on the railing and felt a compulsion to give an inaugural “staircase design award” to whomever had designed these stairs for the minimal size of the gap between switchbacks, which spared my acrophobic self a vertigo-inducing view.

While I had expected my legs to hurt, I found myself sore in places not generally associated with walking. My back ached as I rocked my way up the stairs to generate forward momentum in a futile effort to ease the pressure on my knees. Strangely, my arms, particularly my left elbow and shoulder, also hurt from clinging onto the railing for dear life. Slingshotting myself around the corners was a silly idea I would pay for later when attempting to shower. I even began descending into a delirium of sorts, phasing in and out of a daze, as if watching a livestream of someone else’s masochistic idea of a good time.

The signage on the landings telegraphed an impending end to the pain — 118, 119, 120, 121. As I reached the penultimate floor, I was suddenly overcome with an urge to go out with a bang, maybe akin to the rush runners feel when they see the finish line. Suddenly, my legs felt fresh, and I ended my climb with a surge up the final few steps and a sprint through the final emergency exit.

The arch at the top under which I was too exhausted to bother getting a commemorative photo. I guess there's always next year. [TOM MCCARTHY]

After 34 minutes and 26 seconds, I emerged from the dark stairwell onto the top floor of the tower, awash in sunlight, passing through the finish line arch and beelining for a table racked with cups of water. I rehydrated and was handed a towel and medal, one of which I used vigorously and one which I promptly dropped as my hands shook with nerves, adrenaline and probably a lack of essential minerals.

What is the ratio of active time to recovery time? [TOM MCCARTHY]

Wandering aimlessly around the top floor as I tried to walk off the pounding in my head and chest, some of my fellow participants were buzzing as they posed for photos against the backdrop of the city hundreds of meters below. Others were trying to catch their breath with a shell-shocked look of incredulity at what they had accomplished.

To get down, we were directed toward the Sky Shuttles that ferry visitors to the top floors and back. Since the tower was operating normally, several unfortunate tourists were crammed into what became a hyperbaric chamber of body odor. One asked us about the event: How long did it take? How were our legs? Was it worth it?

The fruits of my labor: a towel that was very useful and a medal that was very heavy. [TOM MCCARTHY]

The madlads who made the climb in full bunker gear. A fully outfitted firefighter carries around 27 kilograms (60 pounds) of gear. [TOM MCCARTHY]

Back on dry land, I limped over to the press tent and collected my stuff before heading over to receive a goody bag of healthy snacks that totally disinterested me, dreading the world of hurt I was in for the next morning.

Which begged the tourist's question: Was it worth it? The strain in my back as I bent down to pick up my bag, the pang of pain in my knees with every step toward the subway, the stiffness in my ankles when I thought better of it and pivoted to get in the taxi line. What had been the point of spending the afternoon in a beige, 1,820-foot vertical hallway? There wasn’t one, really, and there didn’t need to be. It was a test of perseverance and endurance with people from all walks of life fighting their way up the tower, taking each step one at a time.

As for me, my next steps would take me home, to a freezer full of ice packs and a cold beer. Just as soon as I could get up the stairs to my apartment.