Wicking — the series
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How high a cloth wicks
A woven cloth has two capillary systems and they are a factor of twenty to a hundred apart. The one every diagram draws — the hole between four threads — lifts 119 mm. The one nobody draws, inside the yarn, lifts 6.37 m.
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Wicking is slower along a crimped thread
A front travelling up a warp end travels the thread's path, which is longer than the cloth by exactly the crimp. So the wicking coefficient measured on the fabric is the yarn's own divided by (1 + c)² — 14.3 per cent lost at eight per cent crimp, whatever the liquid.
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The pore that wicks is the pore that leaks
A cloth's water resistance and a cloth's wicking are one expression, read at the two ends of a contact angle. The geometry cannot be chosen to give both, because it is the same geometry; the only thing that decides which a fabric does is a finish. And the two questions do not even read the same pore — a rise is set by the finest and a leak by the coarsest, so the same cloth lifts water three metres and holds it back at fifty-six millimetres.
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A drying cloth cannot lift what a sealed tube can
Every rise on this account is an equilibrium in a sealed tube, and a garment is neither sealed nor at equilibrium. Balancing the supply up a strip against the loss from its faces gives a quadratic whose width cancels exactly: in an ordinary room the fine system between the fibres stands at 500 millimetres instead of 6.37 metres, keeping 7.9 per cent of what a tube would give it, while the coarse system loses a third of a per cent. The forty-sixfold advantage becomes 3.7, and in a drying wind it reverses.
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A wick reaches its ceiling in the time its cloth takes to dry
A drying cloth lifts water to a steady height and no further, and the question left was how long it takes to get there. The answer has no permeability and no surface tension in it. Where gravity is small the front climbs as the ceiling times the root of one minus a decaying exponential, and the exponential's time is the cloth's own pore water divided by the rate its faces lose water — the time the room would take to dry it. In an ordinary room that is half an hour, and the front is nine tenths of the way up in fifty-three minutes.
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A sweating cloth wicks as high as the room can dry it
Every wicking height so far has had its foot in unlimited water. Skin is not a reservoir: it supplies sweat at a rate, and a cloth fed at a rate stands where the supply equals what its faces lose — the supply over twice the evaporation, with no pore, fibre or thickness in it. The cloth decides only when it has had enough, and it says so all at once: the holes between its yarns stay empty until the fine pores are carrying ninety-nine per cent of what they can.
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Wicking borrows drying area from the cloth that is not touching
A shirt is fed with sweat across the whole of the skin it touches, not at the foot of a strip. Through its own thickness the cloth could pass sweat a hundred thousand times faster than a body makes it, so a patch pressed flat never lacks capacity; what it lacks is drying area, because it can give water to the room only from its outer face. Pressed flat everywhere, it floods as soon as the sweat exceeds the room's evaporation — light work, in an ordinary room. With free cloth above the contact, wicking carries the surplus to faces that are not touching, and the sweat decides how much area it needs: three times the contact's at a run, whatever the contact's size.