Mr. O'Shea is the only person allowed to fail," Lieutenant Scott Sweet of the New Hampshire State Police announces from the front of the room. Twenty-five of us sit on hard plastic chairs in a drafty lecture hall on a cold Saturday morning waiting for instruction. We're here to start the process of becoming New Hampshire State Police officers. I have no real desire to be a state trooper, but I don't want to fail today, despite my free pass to do just that. The physical agility test starts this morning, and things have already gotten interesting.

More than a dozen people haven't even lasted to 9 a.m. One guy doesn't even make it to the registration table, stopped by a tattoo on his bicep. I'd read that all visible tattoos - on heads, faces, necks or hands, or low enough on biceps, are instant disqualifiers. As two others are rejected for their body ink, I'm grateful I decided against that butterfly teardrop tattoo that seemed like such a swell idea at the Weirs years ago. Five others, including a woman who'd driven all the way from Maryland for this morning's test, are sent away because of poor eyesight.

I've known about the requirements for weeks. For me, a man in his 40s, I need to accomplish the following: bench press 86 percent of my weight at least once, do 32 sit-ups in a minute, nail 22 pushups, and run a mile-and-a-half in just under 13 minutes. I haven't bench pressed anything in a while, and I don't normally run like someone's chasing me, which is what it will feel like once the timed run comes around.

Applicants for a job with the State Police must pass all four phases of the physical test, score at least a 70 percent on today's written test, and then pass the oral boards a few days later, prefaced by an exhaustive questionnaire, 30-plus pages of questions ranging from past employers to your gambling habits. Then you must pass an extensive background check, followed by a polygraph test, interviews with the Director of State Police, physical and psychological exams, and unannounced drug tests. "Only 3 to 5 percent of everyone who walks through that door is offered a job," Lt. Sweet offers. "It's very rigorous. We consider personal appearance, communication skills, bearing and demeanor as important pieces of what makes a state trooper," he states as he looks past me at the line of the applicants. This is all swell, but my sparkling communication skills won't be lifting that bar off my chest.

My application process will end with the physical this morning, but I'm determined to do everything I can to earn a 70 percent. I'd love to take the written test if I qualify, but I'm told it wouldn't be a good idea. I bet they have lots of questions about scatter

guns, dirt-bag perps and that guy in the red Ferrari heading north on 89 at an unsafe clip, but Lt. Sweet tells me it's more about general aptitude than trooper lingo.

Six applicants fail the bench press, each with his own dejected, embarrassed smile as he walks out of the weight room and across the assembly hall, escorted by a trooper who explains, presumably, why weaklings like them make lousy officers. I want to see him grab the guy's hand and squeeze hard, dropping the former applicant to his knees in crippling, humiliating pain, but each time the trooper offers words of encouragement as he points to the door. I should temper my desire to watch others fail, because based on my lack of upper body strength, lifting 86 percent of my own body mass may induce a stroke. I know Lt. Sweet's given me a pass, but still, emitting whimpering sounds in front of uniformed, gun-toting spotters while the weight slams into my larynx is no way to make an impression.

Before I know it, I'm flat on my back with two troopers standing over me, the brims of their hats blocking the ceiling light as they ask if I'm ready. I am and lift the weight with no problem. Wow - that was easier than I thought. "Want to up the weight?" one trooper asks. I decline and head back into the assembly room where the other 23 men and one woman are waiting.

Lt. Sweet stands in front of us, explaining that state police work "birthdays, holidays, weekends and anniversaries," reminding us that we must be willing to live anywhere in the state if we're hired. He informs us that there's a "self-imposed hiring hiatus," and I can see a few mental balloons deflate among the group. Lt. Sweet adds, "It's the colonel's decision when to start hiring again," which is interesting because the only decisions the colonel's ever made that I cared about were what to charge for extra crispy or when to throw in a biscuit for free.

We're split into groups of three for the rest of the testing, and we're paired up for the push-ups and sit-ups. As we gather around the mats, Trooper Cooper, a man only an inch taller than me but with a chest and arms like a circus strongman, barks orders. "This is your first and only opportunity to demonstrate your seriousness about this job. Give 110 percent at all times - we're not looking for average here today," he says, pausing to make eye contact with each of us. "We are not here to motivate you, so don't be anyone's cheerleader."

Trooper Cooper concludes with a warning - "We don't need to hear any swearing or vulgar language from any of you. I tolerated it during the bench press but no longer." Everyone nods in agreement. "Are there any questions?" he asks.

Now, everyone in a 10-mile radius of this moment knows now is not the time to ask questions, but that doesn't stop one young guy who asks, "Can we move side to side during the sit-ups?" Trooper Cooper stares at the kid for a moment, looks away and says, with simmering contempt, "Work your side obliques on your own time." He ends with, "Don't question the trooper - don't argue or we'll send you packing." I think he's serious.

I'm paired with David Tirado from New York City, a crack push-up specialist recently finished with his Air Force service. We both pass with flying colors, each of us taking turns holding each other's feet and placing a fist under the chest for a perfect push-up. Trooper Cooper is right down next to us, counting out each and every exercise. I do more than 30 push-ups, but he takes a few away from my tally because I didn't get low enough. I decide not to correct him.

All eight of us pass these second and third tests, and we head to the final challenge - the timed run. The track is a miniature version of a racing oval, and we're told it'll take 17 and a quarter laps for the mile-and-a-half. The entire set-up has the vague feeling of a Japanese game show, except we're not wearing helmets or shiny unitards. We sit in silence, waiting to begin. It's really hot in here, and my arms are shaking from the rapid-fire push-ups I've just done. Minutes later we're up, standing at the starting line.

The lone female trooper takes the helm, explaining that we're to shout out our names and lap number each time we pass the troopers, each of whom stands with a stop watch and no trace of a smile. She shouts, "Go," and the eight of us take off. I have no reason to rush - I know I can run a mile in 8½ minutes, and my day ends after this, but I'm caught up in the moment and run like an EZ Pass violator with three priors and an expired registration. A few guys sprint out ahead, and I struggle for a pace. "O'Shea one!" I yell as I come around the corner. One guy in a red shirt finds inspiration and sprints at an absurd speed - there's no way he'll make it.

Single page