My Superhuman Experience
Being asked to take part in a television programme called Superhuman
creates a mixture of emotions.
The first is a sense of absurdity - surely no-one thinks that leading
a few diving trips classifies anyone as a Superhuman?
The second is trepidation - the other contestants will inevitably
be clean-limbed MENSA members, easy on the eye and sporting bulging
CV's that reek of a life of heroic accomplishment.
The third is curiosity - we're all keen to find out what makes
us us, and this would be the ultimate examination, the chance to
be picked apart like a giant laboratory rat under the unwavering
gaze of the UK's leading experts in human performance.
It was the latter that really provided the spur to take part, and
the beginning of May 2003 saw me trembling in anticipation outside
the TV studios in West London. The first hurdle was to be meeting
the other contestants, and I was shown through a maze of corridors
to a small room containing four rather uncertain looking fellows
in blue t-shirts.
Introductions over, it seemed that every area of human performance
was neatly covered - a creative type, an athlete, an extreme explorer,
an all rounder, and a fearsomely capable would-be astronaut with
a natty line in arrow straight hair partings. The overriding sense
in the room was of bewildered anticipation, and a reassuring incredulity
that any of us had been selected to take part at all.
We also met the female contestants, all of whom seemed to cover
much the same areas of human performance as the men. The notable
difference was that they all looked like supermodels, causing us
men to immediately start acting most strangely (sucking in stomachs,
picking up unnecessarily heavy objects etc. etc.). Formalities over,
we all trooped out into the glare of the studio lights and began
a month of distinctly public dissection and examination.
Having served eight years with the Royal Marines and taken part
in expeditions in some distinctly hairy areas of the world, the
one thing I was sneakily confident about was that the producers
would have to work pretty hard to really rattle me. You can therefore
imagine my thoughts as I dangled over a 150 foot drop two days later,
heart rate hammering through a loudspeaker echoing round a cavernous
hanger, blood thundering in my ears, with the noise of shears being
unsheathed behind me by some grinning buffoon about to cut my safety
line.
My resultant eyeball bulging free fall would end, I was convinced,
in a noisy face-plant in the concrete below. If someone took the
trouble to study the expression on the resultant facial imprint,
they would see a look of resigned misery. Fortunately, the bungee
attached to my ankles did it's job and I staggered away wordlessly
on wobbly legs.
And so the scene was set. The tests were a series of endless surprises,
fiendish twists and turns in a devilish plot that kept us all on
our toes through a remarkable month. When not peering at a computer
screen through heavily-lidded eyes, we were spinning in a tin can
through inky black water. When not being psychologically manipulated
during mock interviews given by a young lady who clearly had some
serious issues with large rugby playing ex-military types, we were
hurtling through woods with a deranged driver screaming spittle-laden
questions at us.
Through it all we became a tight-knit group, huddling together
in mutual support as we were laid bare for the watching public.
In retrospect I can think of no finer way to spend a month. Great
people, both behind and in front of the camera. Great tests, a crash
course in who you really are and what makes you tick. Great fun
too, with the notable exception of the centrifuge, where I not only
nearly ruptured my internal organs but also virtually deafened myself
by throwing up extravagantly throughout.
People, performance, pressure, persistence, patience, and projectile
vomit - the perfect recipe for a great programme.
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