It's 3 p.m. in the basement of the engineering building at Central Connecticut State University. Desks and chairs have been pushed against the walls to make space for the main event. Within this ring is a second circle of adults in T-shirts and jeans, turning away to cover their expectant smiles. And in the center of this circle is four-year-old Patrick, who has just climbed behind the wheel of a brand new red convertible.

He is silent, uncertain, shifting in his seat. A cloud of concern passes through his brown eyes. Then, suddenly, it's gone. Without warning, he's off, his hesitation ousted by contagious glee.

"You better watch where you're going, buddy," his mother, Kate, calls after him. "Keep your eyes on the road!" Patrick zooms past, grinning. A volunteer jumps in front him, grabs the hood with both hands, and swings it around in another direction just before Patrick crashes into a table.

"I got a car!"

Kate Horowitz

Patrick's ride was a long time in the making. Cole Galloway started his pediatric physical therapy lab at the University of Delaware in 2000, hoping to help get kids with mobility issues moving.

The ability to explore the world is crucial to our development as social animals. When an infant or toddler reaches for an object, scoots across the carpet, or learns to walk around the room, she's learning to interact with her environment in a way that forges new connections. Every action, whether it's learning the hard way not to grab a cat's tail or wandering away from the checkout line at the supermarket, delivers loads of information. A mobile child learns how to explore a room and approach other children. Her brain learns how to work with her eyes to perceive objects in three dimensions as she develops the neural pathways that will help her hold a spoon.

But physical therapists say the brains of kids like Patrick may not get to forge these connections. Patrick has already grown weaker on one side of his body. As he ages, he may have trouble making out words on a page, making friends, or feeding himself. So the sooner Patrick and other kids with mobility issues can get moving, the better off they'll be.

That's where Power Wheels come in. Galloway and his staff worked for years designing physical therapy devices to encourage brain-boosting movement for kids, but kept coming up against two major obstacles: the American health care system and boredom. Devices like power wheelchairs are expensive and most major insurers won't cover them until a child is at least two years old. Even then, many families are turned away. Each denial of assistive devices early in a child's life can lead to delays and deficits that may take years to overcome—if they can be overcome at all.

Several times a week, kids like Patrick go to physical and occupational therapy to be coached through repetitive exercises. Galloway watched toddlers laboring in his lab to build their strength and coordination. When, he wondered, do these kids get to play?

One day in 2006, Galloway grabbed his lab assistant and drove to Toys 'R' Us. They were standing in the Power Wheels aisle, peering inside Barbie Jeeps and tiny tractors, when Galloway had an epiphany. He realized that, with a few adjustments, an off-the-shelf ride-on car could become a mobility aid that kids would love to use.

Where the average power chair starts at around 25 grand, a little red convertible like Patrick's costs about 100 bucks. It's part of Galloway's GoBabyGo! program, in which each car is customized to suit and support its recipient. Take outgoing and energetic Xander, one of the program's earliest beta testers. For all his energy, Xander's weak leg muscles were making it hard for him to keep up on the playground. Galloway's solution? A kid-sized ATV that only worked when Xander stood up in the driver's seat. Now he's building strength in his legs, and his (slightly jealous) friends have to race to keep up with him.

Most custom jobs are not cheap, but here most of the modifications involve PVC pipe, pool noodles, and Styrofoam kickboards. Each hacked kid car is simultaneously a personalized therapy tool and the coolest toy ever. Best of all? It's free.

"I got a car!"

Galloway and his team built a bunch of cars, then invited local kids to come in and test-drive them. The response was incredible, and Galloway wanted to do more. But they needed help. The team started hosting workshops: a few people, buying and assembling a few cars, and giving them away to a few kids. Word spread. Soon Galloway was attending workshops at other universities. Then the workshops started organizing themselves.

The workshop I attended at CCSU began hours before Patrick's joyride, when dozens of bleary-eyed volunteer engineers converged on their workstations. Atop each lab bench sat an unassembled car, emblazoned with a child's name. The first step was building each car the GoBabyGo! way: Engineers pulled out the wiring and replaced the accelerator with a big, bright button in the middle of the steering wheel.

Once each team has their car running, they're given a brief description of the driver. "Weston is three years old and will need a seat belt. Loves to go fast!" Aurora may need help steering. Patrick is stronger on his right side, so his team decides to put the car's controls on the right. GoBabyGo! representative Ben Leo has been watching. "What if you put it on the left instead? Then he'll really have to really use that arm."

By 3:30, Patrick and Aurora are cruising down the hall like Sunday drivers. Adults stand around drinking coffee. The kids drive through the forest of their parents' legs.

Days like this are happening more and more often as word of GoBabyGo! spreads. In addition to the workshops popping up all over the U.S. and abroad, the program offers a car customization manual for free on its website. The requirements for joining the project are simple: Build a car. Give it away. As of this writing, GoBabyGo! sites have given away more than a thousand cars.

Sam Logan is director of the Social Mobility Lab and PlayTech Workshop at Oregon State University and the author of multiple papers on the little cars' immense value. In one case study, he saw a little girl named Natalie go from being carried to driving her own truck. Natalie began exploring her world, parent in tow. She got to decide where to go and what to investigate. Other kids in the neighborhood learned her name and started inviting her to join their games, even when she wasn't in the truck. Natalie made friends. She smiled more.

"Young disabled children deserve the same mobility opportunities as non-disabled children," Logan told me. "Self-directed mobility is a fundamental human right."

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