Desire path

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Desire paths: created by desire and use. Sometimes I find myself walking on the traces of one as a statement that ‘there ought to be a path here’ - voting with my feet.

There’s the classic, perhaps apocryphal, story of the architect who didn’t build any paths on a campus until people had worn them in, showing where the paths should be.

The phenomena has found use in technology with the phrase 'pave the cowpaths’.

More detail from Dan Lockton:

One emergent behaviour-related concept arising from architecture and planning which has also found application in human-computer interaction is the idea of desire lines, desire paths or cowpaths. The usual current use of the term (often attributed, although apparently in error, to Bachelard’s The Poetics of Space (1964)) is to describe paths worn by pedestrians across spaces such as parks, between buildings or to avoid obstacles—“the foot-worn paths that sometimes appear in a landscape over time” (Mathes, 2004) and which become self-reinforcing as subsequent generations of pedestrians follow what becomes an obvious path. Throgmorton & Eckstein (2000) also discuss Chicago transportation engineers’ use of ‘desire lines’ to describe maps of straight-line origin-to-destination journeys across the city, in the process revealing assumptions about the public’s ‘desire’ to undertake these journeys. In either sense, desire lines (along with use-marks (Burns, 2007)) could perhaps, using economic terminology, be seen as a form of revealed user preference (Beshears et al, 2008) or at least revealed choice, with a substantial normative quality.

Architecture, urbanism, design and behaviour: a brief review , Dan Lockton, Sep 2011

Or see this very concrete example from UC Berkeley at peterme.com .

Published 1 May 2014

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Refers to a poem about a cart that worked perfectly for years and then collapses without warning. Useful parallels in engineering and design. For example, torch lights would generally benefit from being more like the one-hoss shay. A bike light gets progressively worse as the batteries get weak, and cycling gets increasingly dangerous until you decide you can’t take it any more. Much better to have a light that stayed full power, then warned you before it died. HT: Lee Cowles Here’s the full poem: The Deacon’s Masterpiece Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it — ah, but stay, I’ll tell you what happened without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits, — Have you ever heard of that, I say? Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Georgius Secundus was then alive, — Snuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock’s army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot, — In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will, — Above or below, or within or without, — And that’s the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but doesn’t wear out. But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, With an “I dew vum,” or an “I tell yeou”) He would build one shay to beat the taown ‘N’ the keounty 'n’ all the kentry raoun’; It should be so built that it couldn’ break daown: “Fur,” said the Deacon, “’t’s mighty plain Thut the weakes’ place mus’ stan’ the strain; 'N’ the way t’ fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest T’ make that place uz strong uz the rest.” So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn’t be split nor bent nor broke, — That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees, The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the “Settler’s ellum,” — Last of its timber, — they couldn’t sell 'em, Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he “put her through.” “There!” said the Deacon, “naow she’ll dew!” Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren — where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day! EIGHTEEN HUNDRED; — it came and found The Deacon’s masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten; — “Hahnsum kerridge” they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came; — Running as usual; much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE. Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundreth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there’s nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large; Take it. — You’re welcome. — No extra charge.) FIRST OF NOVEMBER, — the Earthquake-day, — There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local, as one may say. There couldn’t be, — for the Deacon’s art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn’t a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whipple-tree neither less nor more, And the back crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out! First of November, 'Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. “Huddup!” said the parson. — Off went they. The parson was working his Sunday’s text, — Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the — Moses — was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n’-house on the hill. First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill, — And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half past nine by the meet'n-house clock, — Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once, — All at once, and nothing first, — Just as bubbles do when they burst. End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That’s all I say. — Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. 1858…Refers to a poem about a cart that worked perfectly for years and then collapses without warning. Useful parallels in engineering and design. For example, torch lights would generally benefit from being more like the one-hoss shay. A bike light gets progressively worse as the batteries get weak, and cycling gets increasingly dangerous until you decide you can’t take it any more. Much better to have a light that stayed full power, then warned you before it died. HT: Lee Cowles Here’s the full poem: The Deacon’s Masterpiece Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it — ah, but stay, I’ll tell you what happened without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits, — Have you ever heard of that, I say? Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Georgius Secundus was then alive, — Snuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock’s army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot, — In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will, — Above or below, or within or without, — And that’s the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but doesn’t wear out. But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, With an “I dew vum,” or an “I tell yeou”) He would build one shay to beat the taown ‘N’ the keounty 'n’ all the kentry raoun’; It should be so built that it couldn’ break daown: “Fur,” said the Deacon, “’t’s mighty plain Thut the weakes’ place mus’ stan’ the strain; 'N’ the way t’ fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest T’ make that place uz strong uz the rest.” So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn’t be split nor bent nor broke, — That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees, The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the “Settler’s ellum,” — Last of its timber, — they couldn’t sell 'em, Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he “put her through.” “There!” said the Deacon, “naow she’ll dew!” Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren — where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day! EIGHTEEN HUNDRED; — it came and found The Deacon’s masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten; — “Hahnsum kerridge” they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came; — Running as usual; much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE. Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundreth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there’s nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large; Take it. — You’re welcome. — No extra charge.) FIRST OF NOVEMBER, — the Earthquake-day, — There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local, as one may say. There couldn’t be, — for the Deacon’s art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn’t a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whipple-tree neither less nor more, And the back crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out! First of November, 'Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. “Huddup!” said the parson. — Off went they. The parson was working his Sunday’s text, — Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the — Moses — was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n’-house on the hill. First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill, — And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half past nine by the meet'n-house clock, — Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once, — All at once, and nothing first, — Just as bubbles do when they burst. End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That’s all I say. — Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. 1858

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