Imagine yourself standing

outside the front door of your home.

I'd like you to notice the color of the door,

the material that it's made out of.

Now visualize a pack of overweight nudists on bicycles.

They are competing in a naked bicycle race,

and they are headed straight for your front door.

I need you to actually see this.

They are pedaling really hard, they're sweaty,

they're bouncing around a lot.

And they crash straight into the front door of your home.

Bicycles fly everywhere, wheels roll past you,

spokes end up in awkward places.

Step over the threshold of your door

into your foyer, your hallway, whatever's on the other side,

and appreciate the quality of the light.

The light is shining down on Cookie Monster.

Cookie Monster is waving at you

from his perch on top of a tan horse.

It's a talking horse.

You can practically feel his blue fur tickling your nose.

You can smell the oatmeal raisin cookie that he's about to shovel into his mouth.

Walk past him. Walk past him into your living room.

In your living room, in full imaginative broadband,

picture Britney Spears.

She is scantily clad, she's dancing on your coffee table,

and she's singing "Hit Me Baby One More Time."

And then follow me into your kitchen.

In your kitchen, the floor has been paved over with a yellow brick road

and out of your oven are coming towards you

Dorothy, the Tin Man,

the Scarecrow and the Lion from "The Wizard of Oz,"

hand-in-hand skipping straight towards you.

Okay. Open your eyes.

I want to tell you about a very bizarre contest

that is held every spring in New York City.

It's called the United States Memory Championship.

And I had gone to cover this contest a few years back

as a science journalist

expecting, I guess, that this was going to be

like the Superbowl of savants.

This was a bunch of guys and a few ladies,

widely varying in both age and hygienic upkeep.

(Laughter)

They were memorizing hundreds of random numbers,

looking at them just once.

They were memorizing the names of dozens and dozens and dozens of strangers.

They were memorizing entire poems in just a few minutes.

They were competing to see who could memorize

the order of a shuffled pack of playing cards the fastest.

I was like, this is unbelievable.

These people must be freaks of nature.

And I started talking to a few of the competitors.

This is a guy called Ed Cook

who had come over from England

where he had one of the best trained memories.

And I said to him, "Ed, when did you realize

that you were a savant?"

And Ed was like, "I'm not a savant.

In fact, I have just an average memory.

Everybody who competes in this contest

will tell you that they have just an average memory.

We've all trained ourselves

to perform these utterly miraculous feats of memory

using a set of ancient techniques,

techniques invented 2,500 years ago in Greece,

the same techniques that Cicero had used

to memorize his speeches,

that medieval scholars had used to memorize entire books."

And I was like, "Whoa. How come I never heard of this before?"

And we were standing outside the competition hall,

and Ed, who is a wonderful, brilliant,

but somewhat eccentric English guy,

says to me, "Josh, you're an American journalist.

Do you know Britney Spears?"

I'm like, "What? No. Why?"

"Because I really want to teach Britney Spears

how to memorize the order of a shuffled pack of playing cards

on U.S. national television.

It will prove to the world that anybody can do this."

(Laughter)

I was like, "Well I'm not Britney Spears,

but maybe you could teach me.

I mean, you've got to start somewhere, right?"

And that was the beginning of a very strange journey for me.

I ended up spending the better part of the next year

not only training my memory,

but also investigating it,

trying to understand how it works,

why it sometimes doesn't work

and what its potential might be.

I met a host of really interesting people.

This is a guy called E.P.

He's an amnesic who had, very possibly,

the very worst memory in the world.

His memory was so bad

that he didn't even remember he had a memory problem,

which is amazing.

And he was this incredibly tragic figure,

but he was a window into the extent

to which our memories make us who we are.

The other end of the spectrum: I met this guy.

This is Kim Peek.

He was the basis for Dustin Hoffman's character in the movie "Rain Man."

We spent an afternoon together

in the Salt Lake City Public Library memorizing phone books,

which was scintillating.

(Laughter)

And I went back and I read a whole host of memory treatises,

treatises written 2,000-plus years ago

in Latin in Antiquity

and then later in the Middle Ages.

And I learned a whole bunch of really interesting stuff.

One of the really interesting things that I learned

is that once upon a time,

this idea of having a trained, disciplined, cultivated memory

was not nearly so alien as it would seem to us to be today.

Once upon a time, people invested in their memories,

in laboriously furnishing their minds.

Over the last few millennia

we've invented a series of technologies --

from the alphabet to the scroll

to the codex, the printing press, photography,

the computer, the smartphone --

that have made it progressively easier and easier

for us to externalize our memories,

for us to essentially outsource

this fundamental human capacity.

These technologies have made our modern world possible,

but they've also changed us.

They've changed us culturally,

and I would argue that they've changed us cognitively.

Having little need to remember anymore,

it sometimes seems like we've forgotten how.

One of the last places on Earth

where you still find people passionate about this idea

of a trained, disciplined, cultivated memory

is at this totally singular memory contest.

It's actually not that singular,

there are contests held all over the world.

And I was fascinated, I wanted to know how do these guys do it.

A few years back a group of researchers at University College London

brought a bunch of memory champions into the lab.

They wanted to know:

Do these guys have brains

that are somehow structurally, anatomically different from the rest of ours?

The answer was no.

Are they smarter than the rest of us?

They gave them a bunch of cognitive tests,

and the answer was not really.

There was however one really interesting and telling difference

between the brains of the memory champions

and the control subjects that they were comparing them to.

When they put these guys in an fMRI machine,

scanned their brains

while they were memorizing numbers and people's faces and pictures of snowflakes,

they found that the memory champions

were lighting up different parts of the brain

than everyone else.

Of note, they were using, or they seemed to be using,

a part of the brain that's involved in spatial memory and navigation.

Why? And is there something the rest of us can learn from this?

The sport of competitive memorizing

is driven by a kind of arms race

where every year somebody comes up

with a new way to remember more stuff more quickly,

and then the rest of the field has to play catchup.

This is my friend Ben Pridmore,

three-time world memory champion.

On his desk in front of him

are 36 shuffled packs of playing cards

that he is about to try to memorize in one hour,

using a technique that he invented and he alone has mastered.

He used a similar technique

to memorize the precise order

of 4,140 random binary digits

in half an hour.

Yeah.

And while there are a whole host of ways

of remembering stuff in these competitions,

everything, all of the techniques that are being used,

ultimately come down to a concept

that psychologists refer to as elaborative encoding.

And it's well illustrated by a nifty paradox

known as the Baker/baker paradox,

which goes like this:

If I tell two people to remember the same word,

if I say to you,

"Remember that there is a guy named Baker."

That's his name.

And I say to you, "Remember that there is a guy who is a baker."

And I come back to you at some point later on,

and I say, "Do you remember that word

that I told you a while back?

Do you remember what it was?"

The person who was told his name is Baker

is less likely to remember the same word

than the person was told his job is that he is a baker.

Same word, different amount of remembering; that's weird.

What's going on here?

Well the name Baker doesn't actually mean anything to you.

It is entirely untethered

from all of the other memories floating around in your skull.

But the common noun baker,

we know bakers.

Bakers wear funny white hats.

Bakers have flour on their hands.

Bakers smell good when they come home from work.

Maybe we even know a baker.

And when we first hear that word,

we start putting these associational hooks into it

that make it easier to fish it back out at some later date.

The entire art of what is going on

in these memory contests

and the entire art of remembering stuff better in everyday life

is figuring out ways to transform capital B Bakers

into lower-case B bakers --

to take information that is lacking in context,

in significance, in meaning

and transform it in some way

so that it becomes meaningful

in the light of all the other things that you have in your mind.

One of the more elaborate techniques for doing this

dates back 2,500 years to Ancient Greece.

It came to be known as the memory palace.

The story behind its creation goes like this:

There was a poet called Simonides

who was attending a banquet.

He was actually the hired entertainment,

because back then if you wanted to throw a really slamming party,

you didn't hire a D.J., you hired a poet.

And he stands up, delivers his poem from memory, walks out the door,

and at the moment he does, the banquet hall collapses,

kills everybody inside.

It doesn't just kill everybody,

it mangles the bodies beyond all recognition.

Nobody can say who was inside,

nobody can say where they were sitting.

The bodies can't be properly buried.

It's one tragedy compounding another.

Simonides, standing outside,

the sole survivor amid the wreckage,

closes his eyes and has this realization,

which is that in his mind's eye,

he can see where each of the guests at the banquet had been sitting.

And he takes the relatives by the hand

and guides them each to their loved ones amid the wreckage.

What Simonides figured out at that moment

is something that I think we all kind of intuitively know,

which is that, as bad as we are

at remembering names and phone numbers