One number compares gliding with sticking
Push off from the wall of a swimming pool and you glide for about a body length. The water lets you travel because your momentum takes time to drain away. Shrink yourself to the size of a bacterium and the same water grips you hard enough to stop you almost at once.
Physicists compare these two effects with the Reynolds number. Multiply a swimmer’s size by its speed and by the density of the water, then divide by the viscosity, the property that makes honey harder to stir than water. A large result means inertia wins and bodies glide. A small result means viscosity wins and motion ends when the push ends.
Edward Purcell put rough values on this scale in a 1977 lecture. A person swimming sits near ten thousand, a goldfish near one hundred and a swimming microbe near one ten-thousandth. Eight powers of ten separate the person from the microbe.
Less than an atom of gliding
Purcell worked one example in detail. Take an animal one micrometre across, swimming through water at thirty micrometres per second. Its Reynolds number is about 0.00003. If it suddenly stops swimming, it glides about a tenth of an ångström before it comes to rest, a small fraction of the width of one atom.
You can check the size of this yourself. A ball with the density of water and a radius of one micrometre loses its speed in about a fifth of a microsecond. At thirty micrometres per second it moves less than a tenth of an ångström in that time, the same tiny scale that Purcell found.
Purcell also turned the picture around. To feel what a microbe feels, imagine swimming in a pool of molasses where no part of your body may move faster than a centimetre a minute. If you could still cover a few metres in a couple of weeks, you would be swimming the way a microbe does.
Only the present push counts
Purcell summed up the consequence in one sentence: “what you are doing at the moment is entirely determined by the forces exerted on you at that moment, and by nothing in the past.” A microbe has no stored momentum to spend. Its velocity at each instant follows from the forces acting at that instant.
This has a surprising effect on swimming strokes. A fish can flick its tail quickly one way and bring it back slowly, and the fast flick wins. For a microbe the pace of a stroke drops out. Moving an arm slowly or quickly carries the body the same distance, so a stroke that simply runs backward brings the body back to where it started. Purcell called this the scallop theorem, and the third chapter proves it.
Microbes swim anyway. Bacteria turn corkscrew-shaped tails, sperm cells send bending waves along their tails, and the simple model in this course uses three beads that change their spacing around a loop. Each of these motions looks different going forward from coming back.
A wing leaves a wake behind
At high Reynolds number a moving body hands momentum to the fluid, and the fluid keeps it. A flapping wing sheds swirling vortices that drift on long after the wing has passed. Those vortices carry the momentum the wing gave away.
In a microbe’s world nothing lingers like that. When the stroke stops, the flow around the body stops with it. That is why the two simulations linked below look so different. The wing’s wake keeps evolving after every beat, while the three spheres of the swimmer move only while an arm is changing length.