Rotation — the series
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The same push, further out, and why that is a different quantity
A force is not enough to say whether something turns. What decides is where the line of the force passes, and the distance from the pivot to that line is the whole of the story.
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The mass, and where it sits, which is what decides the race
Release a hoop and a marble together on a slope and the marble wins, whatever they weigh and whatever their size. Neither mass nor radius survives the arithmetic; only the arrangement does.
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The axis that will not hold
A book spun about its long edge keeps spinning about it. Spun about the axis through its covers, it keeps spinning about that. Spun about the third axis, it flips end over end, again and again, with nothing touching it. Three numbers decide, and what matters is only their order.
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The quantity that survives a change of shape
A skater pulls her arms in and spins four times faster. Angular momentum is conserved, which is the usual explanation, and it accounts for only half of what happened — because the kinetic energy has gone up by the same factor, and something had to pay for it.
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The push that comes out sideways
Push down on a spinning wheel's axle and it swings horizontally. Nothing about that is mysterious once angular momentum is a vector — but the steady precession every demonstration shows is a solution nobody's initial conditions select, and a top released from rest does something else first.
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The top that nods before it settles
A spinning top let go from rest does not begin to precess. It falls, catches itself, and comes back up, over and over, at a frequency that has nothing to do with gravity — and the steady precession every textbook draws is what is left after friction has removed the nod.
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The axis a leak of energy chooses
A body spinning with nothing pushing on it keeps its angular momentum exactly, and keeps its kinetic energy only while nothing inside it flexes. At fixed momentum the energy is least for a spin about the axis of greatest inertia — so any leak, however small, has a destination. The first American satellite found this out in orbit.
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The wobble that is slow because the Earth gives
Euler worked out in 1765 that a spinning, flattened Earth whose axis is knocked slightly off its figure should wobble, the pole wandering in a small circle once every ten months. Astronomers looked for a ten-month period for a century and found nothing. In 1891 Seth Chandler found a wobble of fourteen months instead. The four extra months are not an error in Euler's arithmetic. They are the Earth yielding: its bulge partly re-forms round the displaced axis, weakening the torque that drives the wobble, and the lengthening measures how soft the planet is.
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The compass that finds the axis the Earth turns about
A spinning wheel held so that its axis stays level will, on a turning Earth, swing its axis round to point at true north and stay there — not magnetic north, the geographic pole. Nothing in the instrument knows where north is; it finds the one direction about which the Earth's turning stops tilting it. Built to be used at sea, such a compass has to ignore the ship's lurches, and that forces its swing to have one particular period: 84.4 minutes, the period of a pendulum as long as the Earth's radius, of a satellite skimming the ground, and of a stone dropped through a tunnel to the far side of the planet.
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The vibration that turns part of the way
Strike a wine glass and turn it on the table while it rings, and the note beats: the pattern of the vibration does not turn with the glass. Nor does it stay still in the room. For a ring vibrating in its lowest mode it follows exactly three-fifths of the rotation and slips back the other two-fifths, a fraction that depends only on the shape of the vibration. That fraction, worked out by George Bryan in 1890, is how some of the most precise gyroscopes ever built measure an angle directly, with nothing spinning in them at all.
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The disk that spins faster as it stops
A coin spun on a table settles with a whirr that rises in pitch and then stops dead. Everything about it is losing energy, yet the rattle gets faster to the very end. The point where the rim touches the table races round faster and faster as the coin tips flatter, while the coin's face, and the head on it, turns more and more slowly. Two plausible mechanisms of loss both predict that the tilt reaches zero, and the rattle infinity, at a definite instant — a singularity a coin on a kitchen table runs into every time.
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The egg that keeps turning after it is stopped
Spin an egg on a table, touch it for a moment to stop it, and let go. A cooked egg stays still. A raw one starts turning again by itself, as if something inside had kept going — which it has. A raw egg is two bodies, a thin shell and a liquid that the shell can turn only through the slow grip of viscosity, and the kitchen test that tells them apart is a measurement of how long that grip takes. The same two-body arithmetic says that a raw egg wastes most of the energy of a flick, starts out spinning six times faster than a cooked one given the same twist, and keeps a record of its past rotation in its interior for a second or two after its shell has forgotten.