"X" is for X Planes

The "X Planes" (X for experimental) are the series of research aircraft flown mostly by NASA, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, and its predecessor NACA, the National Advisory Committee on Aeronautics, sometimes in cooperation with the U.S. Air Force.  They've served various purposes over the decades, but the flights that most captured the public's imagination are the ones that set speed and altitude records.  The first and most famous of the X planes was the Bell X-1 in which the great Chuck Yeager broke the sound barrier in 1947, reaching the pinnacle of the test pilot hierarchy and becoming an american hero and legend.  The literal summit of the X Plane flights came courtesy of the North American X-15, the first spaceplane, in which, between 1961 and 1968, pilots like Neil Armstrong reached the edges of outer space and helped blaze the trail to the moon.

However, like so many of my blog posts about "things," this one isn't so much about the thing itself, but what the thing represents.  The X planes represent many things; the can-do attitude exemplified by President Kennedy's speech challenging America to reach the moon by the close of the 1960s, explosive innovation and exploration, and a time when almost all of the countries of the world looked at America with admiration for our audacity and technical leadership.  They also are part of an all but bygone era predating modern computer-aided design, when advancements in flight required men with the "right stuff" to strap on rockets, stare death in the face and laugh, and go blasting off into the stratosphere.

"P" is for Properties of People and Materials

Yeah, that's a mouthful, so how about we call this one Engineering for Writers?

How many times have you read a story and seen a character described as strong, or tough, or unstable?  That's a little like asking how many times you've seen conjunctions or the definite article.  These are properties that can describe not only people but inanimate objects and materials, and engineers use those words even more than writers.  I thought it might be of some interest for the writer to see what engineers mean when they use those words and to see how well the materials science definition lines up with their usage.  Who knows, it may even provide some insights into your writing.  Or not.  But it won't do any harm.

(For our first two words, it might be useful to define a couple of terms first.  Think of a hacksaw blade clamped vertically by the bottom end in a bench vise.  If you push on the top end a half inch or so, it will bend, but rebound to its original position like a spring when we let go.  We call that elastic deformation.  Push on it more than a few inches and it will yield and stay in its bent position.  That's plastic deformation.)

Rigidity.  With people and with materials science, rigid means unbending.  In engineering, whether this is desirable depends on the application, but with people it's usually seen as a negative, i.e., "overly rigid."  

Strength.  We usually seem to think of human physical strength as power, or the ability to apply force, in an active sense.  On the other hand, we tend to see mental or emotional strength as resistance to yielding under stress, in a passive sense, and the latter is how engineers define it.  In materials, strength is resistance to yielding plastically, i.e., permanently.

We like people who are strong and unyielding, but not rigid, completely unbending.  We don't want our heroes to compromise on core beliefs under duress, but we value their ability to examine their beliefs and modify them if it proves to be the right thing to do.

Toughness.  Strong and tough are often used interchangeably, but they are different.  Toughness in a person is the ability to absorb punishment without breaking.  Similarly, in materials science, it's how much energy a material will absorb before failure (breakage or yielding).  Remember the fight scene in Cool Hand Luke?  Lucas wasn't as strong as Dragline, but he was tough; no matter how many times he got knocked down, he kept getting back up.  He lost the fight, but won the respect of Dragline and their fellow inmates.  But what really comes to mind when I think of toughness are little green plastic army men.  Those suckers could take any punishment my six-year-old mind could conjure up, short of fire. You could bend them, but you couldn't tear them with your bare hands.  The polyethylene they're made of is tough stuff.

Brittleness.  In engineering terms, brittleness is the tendency of a material to break suddenly rather than gradually.  Think of a glass rod.  Brittleness in a person can be physical, as in an older person's bones, but is usually used as an emotional quality.  An emotionally brittle person is weak and may "lose it" without warning.

Hardness.  Can be conflated with strength and toughness (Those Marines on Guadalcanal were hard bastards!), but is also used to denote a lack of emotion, or an impenetrable shell.  Not exactly the same in engineering terms, where hardness is resistance to abrasion; the hardness of diamonds makes them ideally suited for cutting and grinding.

Ductility and Malleability.  Ductility is the ability to deform without breaking under tensile stress, often expressed as the ability to be drawn into wire.  Malleability refers to deformation under compressive stress and is usually thought of as the ability to be hammered into thin sheets.  (They don't necessarily go together; gold is ductile and malleable, while lead is only malleable).  With people, the words could be used interchangeably, but I don't recall ever seeing an easily-yielding person called ductile.  I have, however, often seen malleable used to describe people who are easily shaped and influenced by others, and I think it's a great, descriptive word.  Ductile?  You might want to run it by a trusted editor.

If you've made it through this long-winded post, dear reader, you can now use these dual-purpose words with precision and confidence.  No need to thank me, it's just one of the many services I offer!

"H" is for Heat

Here's what I think, humbly.  Disclaimer: I am not a physicist nor a theologian.

Hot (adjective) and cold (adjective) are opposites. They describe relative amounts of heat energy.

Heat (noun) and cold (noun) aren't opposites.  Heat is a form of energy. Although we use it as a noun ("Come in from the cold"), cold isn't really a thing; it doesn't exist except as the absence of heat. You can generate heat, but you can't generate cold. You can build a heat ray, but you can't build a cold ray. Your freezer doesn't generate cold; its mechanism continually removes heat from its interior.

Light is electromagnetic radiation. Darkness isn't the opposite of light, it's the absence of it.  There are light rays.  There are not dark rays.  You can't turn on the dark with a switch.  Light dispels darkness; darkness cannot dispel light.

There is good and there is evil. God is good, therefore, whatever is good has its source in Him and is an imperfect reflection of His person and character.

Evil is the opposite of good, and evil is a thing, it has "substance," it can be palpable.  But God did not create evil. God created man in His image; that is, in a finite way, he imparted his attibutes to man. One of these attributes is moral agency. God made man a free moral agent. Man, in exercising his free moral agency, rebelled against God. Evil comes not from God but from man. All evil has its source in the corruption caused by man's rebellion. Evil is man falling short, sometimes tragically so, of the good created by God.

By my reckoning, if you are asking how a good God could allow evil, you're asking the wrong question. What you should be asking is why God created man with free moral agency.

"F" is for Form Following Function

There was a saying among early airplane designers: If it looks right, it'll fly right. The flowing, organic shapes of a well-flying airplane are naturally pleasing to the human eye. In the slide rule era, the saying pretty much held true. But the high-speed computers and more powerful jet engines of the 1970s allowed engineers to use previously unsuitable shapes to unlock new aircraft capabilities, such as stealth.

 The hard lines and facets that were optimal for scattering radar signals in the first generation of stealth aircraft like the F-117 would have been anathema to designers looking for low drag and stability. 

But the latest engines could overcome drag with their enormous power, and computers performing thousands of calculations per second could not only translate pilot input into control surface movements, but instantly correct for instability. The Grumman X-29 with its forward-swept wings, was designed for extreme maneuverability and was reportedly so inherently unstable that if its triple-redundant computer system suffered a complete failure in flight (a highly unlikely scenario), the aircraft would instantly disintegrate in midair.  Form still followed function, but new technology enabled new forms which allowed for new functions.

Of course, those were military attack and fighter aircraft with unique mission requirements. For just about all other airplanes, low drag and good flying characteristics are still paramount, so airplanes will continue to look right and fly right.

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When American architect Louis Sullivan famously proclaimed that “form ever follows function,” he meant that designers should eschew ornamentation, design for function and let the form (shape) ensue.

I'd bet that Sullivan approved of the motorcycles of his day. Sand-cast engine cases, rows of closely-spaced cooling fins,  pushrod and bevel drive tubes standing proud, stainless steel spokes and fasteners and fenders; all have a function, all are essential, none are there solely for decoration.  Yet, individually and in the capability and competence of the whole they comprise, they have a certain stark beauty.  They are a riot of shapes and textures, a moveable feast for the eyes. 

The plastic bodywork that encases modern sporting motorcycles isn't strictly ornamental.  It does improve aerodynamics and directs air to the radiator.  Riders like it, but I suspect manufacturers like it because it covers up unsightly industrial-looking mechanicals that are designed with manufacturing cost reduction rather than beauty in mind.  Me?  I agree with Jay Leno; I don't trust any motorcycle I can't see through.  Fortunately, we're in the midst of a "see through" motorcycle renaissance.

Sure, parts on vintage motorcycles are polished and chromed, painted and striped, but polishing aids cleaning and plating and paint protect from rust, and there's nothing wrong with making functional parts look good without compromising function.  But nowadays, there's an entire industry devoted to add-on ornamental chrome covers and assorted gingerbread for a certain popular genre of motorcycles.  One can only imagine what Mr. Sullivan would think

Note:  Monday we'll be taking a break from long-winded techno-geek posts.  You're welcome.

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"E" is for Efficiency

Want to know a secret? Ever hear of the famous 200 mile-per-gallon carburetor, the one invented decades ago but suppressed by a cabal of greedy oil company executives? Yeah, it never happened. The mother of all urban legends. How do I know? Simple. It's physically impossible.  Trust me on this.

It’s really not too complicated. There is a certain amount of energy contained in a gallon of gasoline, and it takes a certain amount of energy, and thus gasoline, to safely push an automobile, carrying people and their stuff, over the ground and through the air a given distance at a given speed, and to do so in a structure that won't crumple like an origami boulder upon contact with other vehicles or fixed objects (Smart cars seem a little less so when folded under a semi-trailer).

"I know, but I'm getting wicked fuel economy."

Understand that only part of the energy in a gallon of gasoline is actually utilized in moving the car. Much of the energy is lost - through heat loss, mechanical friction, wind resistance, and tire friction and flex. Even noise and vibration is lost energy. And much of what isn't lost must charge the battery, provide spark to the engine, and power the air conditioning and all those accessories (like Junior and Sissy's DVD players and those front seat bun warmers you paid extra for. Not that there's anything wrong with that).  Even the energy that actually drives the car is eventually dissipated as heat through the brakes. Seriously, the carburetor (or fuel injection today) is not the issue.

Engineers maximize efficiency (minimize energy losses) as much as possible, but no mechanical system is 100% efficient, meaning there are always energy losses. Which is exactly why true perpetual motion machines are an impossibility, the crest of each rise on a roller coaster is lower than the previous one and if you spin the most perfectly balanced and adjusted bicycle wheel it will eventually come to a stop. And because there are always energy losses, there is an upper limit to fuel efficiency and that limit is a lot closer to the highway fuel mileage of a Honda Civic than to a mythical 200 mpg.

All of that awful waste may sound positively medieval, but the truth is, the internal combustion engine is still an engineering marvel that has been refined to fuel efficiency and emissions levels only dreamed of just a few years ago.  We're in the midst of a second Golden Age of high performance, only this time clean and economical performance. (More on that another time.) Electric cars and other alternatives are a real improvement in efficiency, but don't kid yourself; there is still noise and emissions and heat involved, it's just been moved upstream to the coal-fired power plant, conveniently out of sight and out of mind. Internal combustion and alternate energy will exist side-by-side for years to come, like mechanical and electronic wristwatches.  At least until someone figures out how to make a solar-powered airliner.

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"D" is for Draftsman

Or "Draughtsman" for our British and Commonwealth friends, of course.

Yesterday I mentioned things that reach an evolutionary dead-end and get replaced by newer technology. A good example of that, one I’m familiar with, is drafting by hand; that is, the craft of making technical drawings with pen and pencil.

I don’t even really consider myself middle-aged, let alone old, but I’m old enough to have experienced some neat things from way back that aren’t around anymore.  Things like rotary dial phones, S&H Green Stamps and glass milk bottles with foil caps, delivered to my childhood doorstep.

I also worked in an old, honorable trade during its final days – hand drafting.

The engineering company I worked for converted fully to computer-aided drafting (CAD) when I was twenty-two (on IBM 286 PCs, heh heh). Before that, I made engineering drawings by hand, either on a heavy translucent cotton paper called vellum (not the real vellum made from sheep skin), or sheets of Mylar film.

I know how to use this and you don't.

 Hand drafting took skill. Drawing neat lines of a consistent width and connecting straight lines to curves smoothly so that one couldn’t tell where the line ended and the curve began were marks of a good draftsman.  Too much pressure with the erasing machine could rub the “tooth” off of Mylar or rub a hole clean through vellum.  Drafting pens had to be held a certain way and were delicate assemblages that had to be cleaned regularly.  Planning was required, as drawing elements couldn't be instantly rearranged like they can in CAD.

   

Of course, a good draftsman had to have good lettering. Mine wasn’t really up to snuff, and never got there before I transitioned to CAD. If a formal drawing needed text, I usually had to use a pantograph-type device called a “Leroy” set. My dad was a draftsman before moving to planning and design, and his lettering was something to behold. His drawings transcended mere conveyance of information and were a pleasure to look at. He was the one who taught me drafting, but six years of part-time work weren’t nearly enough for me to approach the level of his craft. (Side note: he also made me fill out my college application in engineering lettering for practice. Kind of a pain, but it had the intended effect, and to this day I’m still complimented on my printing, at least compared to other engineers.)

Hand drafting has no objective advantages over CAD, so its days are well and truly gone, and I don’t know of any hairshirt-wearing drafters calling for a return to our T-squares. But I love the memories and the tools of the trade and the trade names - Staedtler Mars pencil lead holders and erasers, Koh-i-Noor Rapidograph jewel-tipped technical pens, Keuffel & Esser vernier drafting machines, Dietzgen compasses, Borco self-healing drafting table covers and Higgins Speedball ink, along with planimeters, French curves, railroad curves, stainless steel multiple dividers, erasing machines, erasing shields, circle templates, lettering guides, engineer and artichoke (architect) scales, drafting tape, horsehair desk brushes, pounce, and fluorescent orange triangles.  Huh - come to think of it, some of those things were pretty long in the tooth when I used them thirty years ago.

So how about you? Did you ever have a vocation that went the way of typewriter repair? What were your favorite tools of the trade? ‘Fess up.

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"C" is for Change

If there's one thing most people would agree is constant in life, it's change, and that's certainly true of the things we use. The history of things is the story of how they are changed in the uneven but inexorable march of technology.

There comes a time when many of the things we use are developed to a point of seeming perfection. We don't always recognize it at the time because we're continually looking to improve and innovate, and it's only after we've innovated a thing away from a state of beauty, elegance and simplicity and toward excess weight, needless complication and superfluous ornamentation that we realize we've gone farther than we ought, or than was really necessary. Remember the lithe, elemental Datsun 240Z and its techno-luxury descendant the Nissan 300ZX?

Some things are perfected but are a technological dead-end. The Samurai's katana wasn't replaced by an improved sword; rather, the firearm rendered the whole concept obsolete.

"Don't worry, Gronk.  Chainsaw just passing fad."

Other times we think a thing has reached a state of goodness that couldn't possibly be improved upon, then, suddenly, new technology comes along and upsets the apple cart and progress begins again. Think of the mechanical wristwatch - for over three hundred years it was improved, refined, seemingly perfected, but still a mechanical watch. Then came the 1960s, and quartz movements and digital displays, and suddenly it was a whole new ballgame.

And what is perfection is seldom clear, even in hindsight. It's hard to frown about technology making watches more affordable and more accurate, yet to me, some significant things were lost: style, the work of artisans, the wondrous interplay of miniature jewels and cogs and springs, not adding electronic batteries to our landfills. The thing is, probably no two people will agree on exactly when something has been perfected or even whether it has. Fortunately, the new doesn't always supplant the old; in the case of watches, electronics peacefully coexist with mechanical escapements, and there are more choices than ever to satisfy both me and my more tech-minded counterparts.

You can probably think of your own examples. Maybe you agree with me that the bicycle reached its apogee of grace and goodness in 1986, or, like me, prefer analog watches and instruments to digital ones. Maybe you're a recurve-shooting archer who looks askance at the cams and pulleys of a compound bow. Do you think the story of the automobile is a big anticlimax after your '66 Beetle? Are you a cook that shuns microwave ovens and prepackaged meals? Are you one of those audiophiles for whom nothing can match the music from from a vinyl LP?

I'm not a Luddite or contrarian. I welcome the real progress brought by technology, but I also recognize that some good things get lost along the way and that some change is more about marketing hype or reducing manufacturing costs than about real improvement for the consumer. Five-blade razors? Really? Forty dollars for a ten-pack of refill cartridges? Are you kidding me?

What's one of your favorite objects of enthusiasm? When do you think it reached its state of perfection, or do you think the best is still yet to come? I'd love to hear from you.

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"B" is for Brazing Bicycles

For this installment of my A to Z series about materials, engineering, and making stuff, "B" was to be for "Bicycle Materials," something I've been interested in since I got into bicycling and began working on my engineering degree twenty-five years ago.  (Yes, I did finish).  But it's far too expansive a subject for an A to Z blog post, and these folks here and here do a better job of explaining it than I could anyway.

So instead, I'd like to narrow the topic down to what the guys in the pictures at the above links are doing, which is called "brazing." This is not to be confused with "braising," which I imagine someone is explaining at this very moment in a cooking blog somewhere. 

I remember when I was a kid in the late '70s talking to another kid about bikes (BMX bikes, natch) and him talking about how his bike was great because it was made of "alloy" instead of steel and how it was also better than steel bikes because it was welded, and the steel bikes, his father told him, were "soldered."

Rivendell Seat lug.  Tubes brazed into it and seatstays onto it.

This used to be my bike.

Later, I figured out that by "alloy" he meant aluminum alloy (steel and aluminum bikes are both constructed of alloys, which are simply mixtures of metals), that steel is arguably the best all-around material from which to make a bicycle frame and and that his dad was full of poo-poo.  By "soldering," he really meant "brazing."

Saying the steel bikes were soldered implied that they were weak, structurally unsound, because soldering is a low strength proposition.  As any BMX-riding electronics geek can tell you, soldering is a secure connection for wires and such that aren't under a structural load, but it's not for bunny-hops and double-jumps.  But brazing is a great way to make a strong bicycle frame that gives up nothing in strength to welded aluminum.

Like soldering, brazing involves connecting two or more metal objects with molten metal, but brazing is more precise.  With brazing, the parts are close-fitting and capillary action draws the molten metal into a thin gap between them (recall that when you dip a corner of a sponge into water, capillary action is what draws water up into the sponge, even against gravity).  In bicycle building, the parts are a steel frame tube and connections, called lugs, or other fittings.  The framebuilder liberally brushes a liquid called flux onto and all around the surfaces to be joined, which protect the metals from oxidation and other contamination.  He or she then carefully applies heat to the joint with a gas torch and touches a metal wire (silver alloy in higher-quality frames) to the gap between the parts.  The silver is melted and drawn into the gap.  Brazing is a fairly simple process, but one that takes years to master.  Good framebuilders know just how much heat to apply - too little and the gap won't be completely filled, too much and the steel will be weakened.  They also know where to apply it - the silver actually flows toward the heat source, so by directing their torch, they can make sure the gap is evenly and completely filled.  The close fit of the parts, the large surface area of their interface and the metal filler make an extremely strong joint; failures of brazed joints in well-made frames are beyond rare.  You'll pull a tube apart before you pull it out of the socket of a properly brazed connection.

As with many crafts, the brazed steel bicycle frame has been replaced in the mass market by cheaper materials and methods that are marketed as "improvements" to buyers, especially new ones.  But, as with many crafts, the professional bicycle framebuilder makes something of extremely high quality that is infused with his or her passion and can easily outlive its owner and be passed on to his or her children.

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