Okay, I don’t love traffic jams. In fact, I hate them. They make me late, they make me tense, and they make me smack the steering wheel and hurt my hand. But traffic jams are an example of a phenomenon that is everywhere in our lives. And without it, we wouldn’t exist.
It’s the tendency for things to clump together.
In the perfect driving world we all imagine, the cars and trucks are spread out evenly, all moving at the same speed. They don’t slow down or get too close to each other. Every trip is smooth and quick. No accidents, flat tires, tailgaters, or slow pokes.
As we both know, however, life doesn’t work that way. Even with no discernible reason, traffic builds. Vehicles bunch together. Drivers slow down and speed up. Sometimes they come to a complete stop, and after creeping along for minutes, they remember how to drive again and the traffic jam dissipates. Then, by the time we reach the imagined problem, there’s nothing there. And we’re on our way, a little confused but happy just the same.
What is this clumping thing all about? Sometimes it’s the result of conscious decisions. For example, people like to be near other people. If you look at any map showing population distribution, you’ll see that that are always places that have a lot of people in a small area (cities and towns). In between, there are large spaces that are empty, or at least much less densely populated. We measure this density with a number, saying New Jersey has about eleven hundred people per square mile. But this is an average, found by dividing the entire state’s population by its land area. There are places in New Jersey where there are more than eleven hundred people living within a given square mile, and there are other places where the number would be very low, even zero. But you’ll never find people evenly spaced. There are always clumps.
Flip a coin a thousand times and you’ll get about 500 heads and 500 tails. Not exactly, but pretty close. If you write down the results as a sequence, though, you won’t find a predictable pattern such as head-tail-head-tail-head-tail. Much more likely, you’ll see heads or tails appearing in strings of different lengths, as small sub-patterns within the randomness. That’s how most things work. Make a batch of chocolate chip cookies and you’ll notice that every cookie has some chips; they never end up all in one cookie and there’s almost never a cookie with no chips. But one cookie may have seven or eight chips, while another may have just three.
As humans, we like to explain why things happen. When we forget this clumping tendency we can misinterpret things like statistics. Stores, especially large chains, study sales figures, comparing this week’s numbers with those of last week, or today’s sales with those of the same date in past years. And then they try to figure out why the dollars went up or down. But built into every one of those collections of digits is clumpiness. Anyone who’s ever worked in a retail store knows this: the place gets busy for a while, and then it slows down. Sometimes it’s because a lot of people just got out of work, or there’s a storm coming, or tomorrow is Thanksgiving. But more often there’s no reason that anyone can identify. It’s just the way it is.
Similar spikes in crime, disease, and natural disasters may seem alarming, and the media are skilled at taking advantage of our misinformed reactions to those events. Any increase in a city’s murder rate is presented as a crime wave. Above-average incidence of the flu quickly becomes a perceived epidemic. An extra hurricane or two and we’re filled with anxiety about runaway climate change. We keep looking for outside causes, when the real explanation may be simple mathematics.
I said in the first paragraph that without clumpiness, we wouldn’t exist. That’s because if you took all of the atoms in the universe and spread them out evenly, there would be just atoms. There would be no galaxies, stars, or planets. Or life. But if you look up at the night sky, you see densely packed collections of matter: stars and planets held together by gravity and separated by vast regions of empty space. That clumpiness is a beautiful thing, and we owe our existence to it. I’m going to try to remember that the next time I’m bouncing my fist on the steering wheel and straining my neck to see what’s going on up ahead. It could be a flat tire, or an accident, or more road construction.
Just as likely, it’s cars doing what they do naturally: forming those wonderful clumps.
Amiable Amiable
October 24, 2010
Me being me, this post sent me surfing for a town named Clump. I bring you “Lee Clump,” a hamlet in England named for a small group of houses separate from the main village of Lee. I wonder if they have traffic jams there.
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bronxboy55
October 25, 2010
I believe they do have traffic jams. They serve them with scones and clotted cream at afternoon tea.
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cooperstownersincanada
October 24, 2010
I have a whole new perspective on traffic jams. A very profound and interesting piece. Thanks for sharing this.
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bronxboy55
October 25, 2010
It’s always good to hear from you, Kevin. Thanks for the comment.
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jharris
October 25, 2010
is your island paradise big enough to support traffic jams? i suppose all 12 of you who live there must call each other on the phone and say, “in 12 minutes i’m going to be on this street; if you hurry you can get stuck behind me!” that would be sweet.
safety in numbers, i suppose? misery loves company? no man is an island — but perhaps an archipelago!
sorry. this is not the witty and insightful post i promised.
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bronxboy55
October 25, 2010
I guess traffic jam is relative. Someone from northeastern New Jersey or Los Angeles or Long Island would laugh at what I refer to as a traffic jam. But I think your nervous system adapts to its environment and finds things to get irritated about. At least mine does. (And I have a feeling yours does, too.)
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heidit
October 26, 2010
What a beautiful and thought-provoking post. I bought a book recently called “The Drunkard’s Walk: How Randomness Rules Our Lives.” I haven’t read it yet but my guess is that the author would probably agree with what you say here.
In my writing program, we took a course on research and one unit of the course was on statistics and how they are misused and misunderstood. This post made me think of that.
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bronxboy55
October 27, 2010
Most people are uncomfortable with randomness, I think. It puts too much responsibility on their shoulders, and on pure luck. I’ve been told many times that there’s no such thing as luck or coincidence, and that everything happens for a reason. There was a time when I believed that, and I can understand its appeal. I just don’t believe it anymore. (But maybe that’s another post.)
Thanks, Heidi.
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shoreacres
November 6, 2010
Ha! You have traffic jams? We have Dante’s 29th Circle of Hell. Jonathan Edward’s Sinners in the Hands of an Angry Dept. of Transportion. Graham Greene’s The Accidental Accident.
Chaos theory – that’s the ticket down here in Houston. If there’s a terrorist around wanting to know how to take down a large, American city, all he would need is a couple of Ford coupes and a Mexican tanker truck with bald tires. You want clumping? I’ll show you clumping!
Great post!
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bronxboy55
November 6, 2010
No, I have to confess: Our traffic jams aren’t worthy of the term. You’d probably laugh. On the other hand, I’ve seen weather reports of ice storms in Texas. You want ice storms? I’ll show you ice storms!
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shoreacres
November 7, 2010
Back in the day (that would be the 70s, when half of Michigan was moving to Houston) there was a certain custom observed when the weather got really nasty.
Folks from “up north” would gather in the glassed-in walkways between downtown buildings, especially the ones with freeways below. They’d watch Houston drivers smack into each other trying to drive on 1/4″ of snow and place bets on the over/under for the number of daily accidents. It usually was around 500.
As for ice – that’s the end of Houston. We cower in our dimly-lit hovels, and keeping saying things like, “It jus’ ain’t nachural, Pa….”
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bronxboy55
November 8, 2010
Speaking of “It jus’ ain’t nachural, Pa,” my wife and I used to sit on the floor with our breakfast and watch “The Andy Griffith Show” every morning at 8:30. Then at 9, KTLA news from faraway Los Angeles would come on. One day the lead story was that some rain was in the forecast. The anchormen said, “Stay tuned to KTLA and we’ll help you through it.” That made us laugh even more than anything Andy and Barney had said.
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