Harmonic approximation — the series
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Every minimum is a parabola
A pendulum, a bond between two atoms and a ship rolling in a swell obey the same equation, and the reason is not that they are alike. It is that a function with a minimum has no linear term there, so the first thing every potential well looks like is the same well.
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The two pendulums that will not stop swapping
Coupled oscillators joined by a weak spring appear to hand energy back and forth. Nothing is handed anywhere: the system has only a pair of motions that keep their shape, at √(k/m) and √((k+2kc)/m), and the apparent traffic is the beat between them — 51 swings from one handover to the next at a coupling of one part in fifty. Extend the same arithmetic to N masses and it produces a dispersion relation with a hard ceiling, near 7 THz in copper.
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Why heating a perfect spring changes nothing
A harmonic solid vibrates harder when heated and does not get any longer. Thermal expansion lives entirely in the term that the harmonic approximation throws away — and so does the fact that a solid conducts heat at a finite rate, which is the same discarded term doing a second job nobody would have connected to the first.
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The oscillator that answers at three times the question
Push a spring hard enough that the parabola stops being the whole story, and three things happen that a linear oscillator cannot do: it emits frequencies nobody supplied, its resonance leans over, and its amplitude at one drive frequency depends on where the drive has been.
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The spectrum that weighs a bond
A vibrational spectrum measured near the bottom of a molecule's well gives its curvature, and the curvature says nothing about how deep the well is. Measured further up, it says everything. The levels of a real bond crowd together towards the top, the gap between neighbours falls towards zero, and the sum of all the gaps is the energy it takes to break the bond. A straight line drawn through the gaps that have been measured, and extended to zero, was for decades how bond energies were found — and for a bond with the tail of two neutral atoms it comes out a sixth short.
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The molecule that lives outside its own well
The harmonic picture describes the bottom of a well, where a molecule vibrates near the length of its bond. The last bound level lives at the top, and when it is bound by almost nothing it is not near the bond at all. Two helium atoms whose potential well bottoms out at three ångströms form a molecule whose atoms sit on average about fifty ångströms apart, most of the time where the force between them is negligible. Such a state forgets the shape of the well that made it. Its size, its binding and the way it scatters are all set by one number, and nothing inside the well can be read from them.
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The third of itself a spring carries
Every textbook gives the frequency of a mass on a spring as the square root of stiffness over mass, and every real spring has mass of its own, which the formula leaves out. The repair is famous and oddly specific: add a third of the spring's mass to the load. The third is not a fudge. It is what the spring's kinetic energy comes to if each coil moves in proportion to its distance from the fixed end, and it is good to two-thirds of a per cent even when the spring weighs as much as the mass. Where it fails, it fails because the spring has stopped being a spring and become a column of waves, with notes of its own above the bounce — the notes that make the valve springs of an engine lose control.
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The weight a frequency can find
A spring's frequency is the square root of its stiffness over the mass it carries, so adding a little mass lowers the note by half the fraction added. Nothing in that rule cares about gravity, and nothing in it cares about size. It weighs astronauts in orbit by the swing of a chair, films a fraction of an atom thick on a quartz plate, and single molecules on a beam a few micrometres long — and it improves without limit as the thing that vibrates gets lighter. What it cannot do on its own is say where the added mass sat, and that turns out to matter as much as how much there was.
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The bicycle that steers itself upright
Give a riderless bicycle a shove and, at the right speed, it wobbles and straightens up, and rides on with nobody on it. People have long credited the gyroscopic wheels or the trail of the fork. A machine built in 2011 had neither, and it stayed up. Four numbers, the roots of a quartic, tell the whole story of when a bicycle rides itself, and they do not contain a simple reason.