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Dissin' Gauge
Jan. 6th, 2005 03:52 pmWe all use gauges, every day, for reasons important to all aspects of our lives. We are familiar with the clock, which gauges the available hours; with the thermometer, which measures the temperature; with the speedometer and odometer, telling us how fast and how far.
Perhaps this familiarity has made us inured to odd gauges. We see a gauge, and make assumptions about the unmarked portions. But what happens when those assumptions are wrong? What does that tell us about ourselves, verses the lives of those who actually made the gauge?
The busses we drive at work use air brakes. Therefore we are constantly checking the pressure of the air reservoir to make sure we can, well, stop. The gauge is of a standard, up to a point; it has hash marks, some of them with numbers by them, some not. Some marks are longer than others, and the short ones are always between the longer ones. With me so far?
I should come as no surprise to anyone that the numbers on the gauge are all even, and divisible by 30 (30, 60, 90, 120, etc.), and are placed beside longer hashes. This is pretty standard in gauge land, to have numbers divisible by ten demarked, and to imply numbers divisible by 5 with short hashes.
I made just this assumption with the air reservoir gauge, because of my past association with other gauges and my relation to the human race, a possessor of ten fingers and ten toes.
Wrong assumption.
Between the numbered hashes, there is only one long hash, with two short hashes, for a total of three, meaning that each long mark is 15 psi, and, even stranger, each short hash marks 7 1/2 psi.
Stranger still, the failure of the gauge to adhere strictly to its own metric: under the main hash marks the gauge features a "green zone",an area of safe operation denoted by a green field. Beyond that zone lies the red color, where the operator has to worry about too much pressure (over 120), or, worse, too little (under 65). Why didn't the geniuses at the gauge company use numbers divisible by both 120 and 65?!? Instead, just counter-clockwise from the 60 psi number mark, the red low pressure zone begins, awkwardly outside a demarcation.
This obvious oversight in style leads me to believe that the 7 1/2 increment exists for reasons other than error; that the metric is as intrinsically embedded in the lives of the gaugers as the number ten is to you or I.
I'd like to introduce you to Barry, the gauge maker. Barry, a sad, misunderstood youth born with only 7 1/2 fingers and 7 1/2 toes. Barry, who experienced great discomfort at the changing of the weather, discomfort focused in the sinovial gap between his half finger and half toe, a frequent occurrence that led him to study and pioneering advances in the science of the atmosphere.
Yes, folks, this awkward gauge must have been designed by Barry Metrick himself, the man who, in the field of relative gasseous pressure measurement, raised the bar.
Perhaps this familiarity has made us inured to odd gauges. We see a gauge, and make assumptions about the unmarked portions. But what happens when those assumptions are wrong? What does that tell us about ourselves, verses the lives of those who actually made the gauge?
The busses we drive at work use air brakes. Therefore we are constantly checking the pressure of the air reservoir to make sure we can, well, stop. The gauge is of a standard, up to a point; it has hash marks, some of them with numbers by them, some not. Some marks are longer than others, and the short ones are always between the longer ones. With me so far?
I should come as no surprise to anyone that the numbers on the gauge are all even, and divisible by 30 (30, 60, 90, 120, etc.), and are placed beside longer hashes. This is pretty standard in gauge land, to have numbers divisible by ten demarked, and to imply numbers divisible by 5 with short hashes.
I made just this assumption with the air reservoir gauge, because of my past association with other gauges and my relation to the human race, a possessor of ten fingers and ten toes.
Wrong assumption.
Between the numbered hashes, there is only one long hash, with two short hashes, for a total of three, meaning that each long mark is 15 psi, and, even stranger, each short hash marks 7 1/2 psi.
Stranger still, the failure of the gauge to adhere strictly to its own metric: under the main hash marks the gauge features a "green zone",an area of safe operation denoted by a green field. Beyond that zone lies the red color, where the operator has to worry about too much pressure (over 120), or, worse, too little (under 65). Why didn't the geniuses at the gauge company use numbers divisible by both 120 and 65?!? Instead, just counter-clockwise from the 60 psi number mark, the red low pressure zone begins, awkwardly outside a demarcation.
This obvious oversight in style leads me to believe that the 7 1/2 increment exists for reasons other than error; that the metric is as intrinsically embedded in the lives of the gaugers as the number ten is to you or I.
I'd like to introduce you to Barry, the gauge maker. Barry, a sad, misunderstood youth born with only 7 1/2 fingers and 7 1/2 toes. Barry, who experienced great discomfort at the changing of the weather, discomfort focused in the sinovial gap between his half finger and half toe, a frequent occurrence that led him to study and pioneering advances in the science of the atmosphere.
Yes, folks, this awkward gauge must have been designed by Barry Metrick himself, the man who, in the field of relative gasseous pressure measurement, raised the bar.