OLIVIA
(to self)
Never raced a bike before, but look, I’m passing people… I’m passing tons of people… It’s like I’m some sort of bike prodigy

(aloud)
On your right!…. On your right!…

(OLIVIA approaches GIRL from behind, moves to pass her)

OLIVIA
(to self)
That must be it… Yes… I’m a bike prodigyMeant for this… Born for this… A natural

(aloud)
On your right!

(OLIVIA passes GIRL, makes it about 10 feet AHEAD, takes a turn too QUICKLY, attempts to BRAKE, and completely WIPES OUT, flailing.)

OLIVIA
(prostrate, bleeding)

GIRL (chirping)
On your left!

I have found that in research there are highs and lows and lows and lows and a low you think is a high and a high and more lows. The good news is it’s worth it: Discovery evokes the feeling of staring out over the edge of the known world; it’s an electrifying kind of elation that borders on the sublime. It’s dangerous, too– the notion that you might know something that no one else in the world knows can make you feel powerful and edgy, and you start daydreaming about having a theorem named after you and constructing interviews with the editors of Scientific American in your head during classes instead of paying attention or producing anything of actual substance. But that’s about the point where a failed proof or a p-value greater than 0.05 busts the party and writes your ego up for egregious misbehavior and a flagrant disregard for reality.

The roller coaster might be a little bumpier for math research than other fields (I can, for example, come up with what I think is a great idea around breakfast and know conclusively that it won’t work by lunch), but it’s the same sort of ride for every subject. Even with only months of research experience behind me, I’ve learned enough to know that dead-ends and inconclusive results go hand in hand with exploration. I first caught onto this indelible fact in high school when I spent two summers helping with a couple of research projects. One involved dropping rats into a tank of water and filming them; the other had me looking at hundreds of scanned handwriting samples and clicking boxes around each character. After hours of tedious labor, all I had to show for myself were two sets of “Well, there might be something…” results and one case of carpal tunnel syndrome.

These days, it’s the same story. I have a tiered system for organizing my math research: things that I am currently working on (or that I know have failed) go on the yellow legal pads while the interesting bits get recopied into the Victory Notebook. There’s only ever one Victory Notebook, but the number of yellow legal pads keeps growing and growing. (Current count: five.) I’ve only recently switched over to a small white board that is both more space-efficient and less depressing.

So, failure happens, and a lot. Again, the payoff– rejecting the null hypothesis, forging a new trail– more than makes up for effort put in, even if it can be difficult to fully appreciate that fact when you’re mired in a series of unsatisfying trials. In times such as those, I have found that it helps to buy a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, camp out in your pajamas, and reflect upon what you have learned. Because that’s the fantastic thing about research; you always come out the other side knowing more than you did going in. I learned that I’d need to control for more variables if I wanted to repeat the rat experiment. I learned that a parametric approach might not be the best for exploring the commutant of the tridiagonal pattern after all. Little details like these aren’t much, but they build up, eventually to that next great high, slowly revealing what is not so you can discover what is.

1. It was sheer luck that got me into math research. A professor just happened to be looking for a freshman to add to his research team, and I just happened to be a freshman who had taken the right prerequisites. Perfect; match made—let’s learn some linear algebra.

What’s unusual here is that I went in fairly blind, knowing not much more about matrices than could be learned in an introductory-level course. What’s strange and kind of wonderful is that I turned out to like what I wound up doing a whole lot more than I’d ever expected to. My research experiences over my freshman year were enough to change me from a possible math minor to a definite math major a give a whole new direction to my studies. I even applied for a scholarship from the Charles Center just so I could hang out on campus during the summer and do more of the same stuff. So, there you go. Sometimes things just work out.

2. It was being obnoxious that got me into biology research. I’d been interested in evolutionary biology before taking BIO 204, but it was the course itself that really sparked my imagination. When not taking notes or doodling, I’d sometimes jot down questions that were only peripherally related to the subject matter during class and harass my professor about them later, either by e-mail or by stopping by his office.

I bothered him pretty frequently, and with questions that generally came pretty far out of left field (“What exactly is the aquatic ape hypothesis?” “Do we know anything about the evolution of aesthetics?” “What is the deal with punctuated equilibrium? Seriously?”). Fortunately, he never viewed the questions as the imposition I assumed they were and was always more than willing to answer or explain anything I brought before him. In repeatedly coming to him with inquiries, in fact, I was able to both 1) demonstrate an interest in field outside of the curriculum and 2) get him to learn my name (Downside: He could call me out in front of everyone when I fell asleep in class). With these two key elements in place, I felt comfortable asking to join his research lab during my second semester. Moral of the story: Being a big pain can sometimes pay off.

3. There’s no limit to the number of ways you can get involved in undergraduate research at the College; however, almost every professor I’ve spoken to has offered the same general advice on getting started. Look online at what the faculty of your department are working on, find something you might be interested in, read some of their articles, and use what you’ve read to demonstrate interest when asking to work with them. You don’t have to be absolutely certain that you want to continue in that specialty—even if you wind up not enjoying the material as much as you thought you would, you’ve still learned something for the future—and who knows? Undergraduate research is a process of discovery, both of subject and of self. With a little luck, you might find yourself drawn in by something new, fantastic, and wholly unforeseen.