Branches

We concern ourselves a lot with the conveyance of information. A given nugget of data can be expressed in a number of ways, and it’s often hard to tell what’s going to be the most effective. We can usually sort it out with user testing, but sometimes it comes down to a gut feeling. Because I deal with these choices a lot in my job, I’m sensitive to them when I encounter them out in the real world.

Recently I’ve taken up jogging at the gym. When I jog outside, it’s takes the littlest amount of brainpower to determine how far to run—just set a point B, run there, turn around, then run back to point A. In the gym, it’s several steps more difficult, because I’m on a track, and points A & B are the same, and I pass them dozens of times in a given session.

At my gym, one lap = 1/12 of a mile. Which means, as I run, I need to store a variable in my brain that can have one of twelve different states. This is, to my surprise, remarkably difficult to do. I’m not sure if it’s the adrenaline, or elevated heart rate, or the seven TVs I pass on each go-round, but the simple task of incrementing a number every 45 seconds has proven to be an unreliable method of keeping track of my progress.

So I considered my options. Without a buddy at a stationary point outside the track keeping score for me, I had to rely on just me and my brain. Simple counting wasn’t working; I clearly needed another trigger. I first went for tactile. Instead of incrementing a number in my head on each lap, I extended the relevant number of fingers, then pressed them against my body—somewhere in my midsection, which had the added benefit of reminding me with every soft tap what was bringing me here. (see ¶1, “gut feeling”). The idea being that physical touch would inbue the variable in my brain with more meaning and make it easier to access. This worked for about one session, then I started to lose track again. The feeling of four fingers pressing against my side turns out to be roughly the same as three fingers. Time for Plan C.

I needed something more than tactile. I needed something physical, something whose state existed beyond my own memory and could be accessed at any time. Turns out I had the perfect instrument: my wedding ring.

By moving my ring from one finger to the next as I progress around the track, I’m now able to store the operative piece of information in a physical object, outside my brain. There’s no chance of forgetting or misremembering it. All I’m required to remember now is an action: move the ring from one finger to the next as I cross a certain point. It’s a much simpler task for my exhausted mind.

There’s a pleasant coincidence of design here as well. Because I have ten fingers and because each mile has twelve laps, my ring has to start over upon reaching lap eleven. Two laps later, after finishing the full mile, my ring is on digit number two (12 mod 10), which happens to be its home base, i.e. my ring finger. Meaning, if I’m feeling partcularly lethargic, there is no longer a need even to remember how many total laps I’m working toward—if I look down and see my ring somewhere it doesn’t belong… I just keep on running.

Where most men merely use their wedding bands as a timeless symbol of love and everlasting devotion, I’ve imbued mine with extra special mathematical powers. This is not the least bit surpising.