"See that?" Bill said, "We have to make it roll over at 60 mph." I looked away from the wiry, gray haired Bill Howard and toward the 4000 pound behemoth. Two tons of steel frame and sheet metal sat in Mr. Howard's driveway. It didn't look like it wanted to roll over.

The next six weeks challenged my knowledge of physics, my patience, and my resistance to exhaustion. Bill Howard was working on a unique project. In order to demonstrate the benefits of laminated safety glass over tempered glass, Bill had to replicate an actual crash to show lives could have been saved with laminated glass.

To accomplish this feat we began converting a Chevrolet Suburban to a fully remote controlled vehicle. For the first time in my life, I was building something without following the directions. I had a reason though: there were no directions. We were doing something no one had done before. Learning began when we went beyond what we already knew. I had finally passed the point of solving problems out of the book. Now I was using my knowledge to solve a real problem.

Building something completely unique forced us to improvise. To convert the Suburban we had to draw materials from many different fields: electronics, hydraulics, even a motor that had once operated a dinosaur for the movie Jurassic Park. This kind of synthesis is what I want to accomplish in my education. Much as we could not have completed our project with material from one field, I can not truly complete my life with education from one field. Although I intend to major in physics, I know I will not be satisfied without learning of psychology, philosophy, chemistry, and language, to name a few.

The physical labor involved in the project seemed to give it more meaning. Rather than working out a solution to each problem as an abstraction, I approached each difficulty knowing that I would be the one sawing, drilling, and soldering. Doing the work, I knew that any error would not lead to a lowered grade, but to hours of extra work devoted to correcting my mistake. In the end the labor was the greatest reward as well. I looked at our remote control vehicle and saw something I helped design and build. It was mine.

On the day of the test, Bill granted me one of the greatest honors of my life. "Zach," he said, "you've done the most practice driving. I think you should be the one to roll this vehicle." In the middle of bean field, I stared at the men around me: engineers, camera men, even a representative from DuPont, who makes the plastic laminate for the safety glass. They chose me, at the age of seventeen, to pilot their test car on the one drive it would ever make.

Riding shotgun in the chase car at sixty miles per hour, I tried to keep my nervous hands steady on the remote. At the signal from the driver, I threw the controls all the way right. I watched the wheel of the Chevy dig into the soft earth as it lurched in a violent circle. "Roll, damn it!" I hissed, biting my tongue as I remembered the professionals all around me. Similar feelings of disappointment were evident on their faces as well. The Suburban stood defiantly upright.

I looked over my remote control and realized my mistake. "I didn't adjust the gain switch," I announced with what boldness I could. "We can back it up and do it over. I'll make it roll this time."

No one seemed upset. No one chastened me for such an obvious error. "Okay, let's make it happen," the driver instructed. I set my controls correctly and took a deep breath. When we reached the necessary speed, I once again steered the Suburban hard right. Tires bit earth, and the Chevy seemed to leap into the air. Two and a half revolutions and three steel crunching impacts later, it came to halt. I couldn't help cheering.