Time Dilation
Right now, above your head, a fleet of GPS satellites is racing round the Earth at about
14{,}000\ \text{km/h}. The atomic clocks they carry are the most precise
timekeepers ever flown — and they do not keep the same time as the identical clocks
sitting in the control room below. A clock in motion ticks a little slower than one at rest. This is
not a defect, not a wiring fault, not a trick of the signal: it is how time itself behaves. The
effect is called time dilation, and it is the first and most startling consequence
of special relativity.
The whole page rests on one sentence, worth reading twice: a clock moving past you runs
slow compared with your own. Not because moving clocks are badly made — an ideal, perfect
clock does exactly the same — but because the two of you are measuring time along different paths
through spacetime. Below we will build the effect from a single thought experiment, pin down the
precise factor by which the moving clock slows, and confront the puzzle that trips up almost
everyone: if motion is relative, whose clock is really the slow one?
A real clue: muons that shouldn't reach the ground
Nature runs this experiment for us millions of times a second. When cosmic rays slam into the top of
the atmosphere, roughly 15\ \text{km} up, they create showers of
muons — heavy cousins of the electron. A muon is unstable: left alone it survives on
average only 2.2\ \mu\text{s} (millionths of a second) before decaying.
Even travelling at almost the speed of light, c \approx 3\times 10^8\ \text{m/s},
in 2.2\ \mu\text{s} a muon should cover only
d \approx c\,\tau = (3\times 10^8)\,(2.2\times 10^{-6}) \approx 660\ \text{m}.
Just 660 metres — it should die high in the sky, and almost none should
ever reach a detector on the ground. Yet detectors at sea level are drenched in muons. How
do they cross 15\ \text{km} when their little internal clock allows for
barely half a kilometre? Because that internal clock — like every moving clock — runs
slow as seen from the ground. From our frame the muon's 2.2\ \mu\text{s}
of life is stretched by a large factor, giving it easily enough time to make the trip. The muon is a
clock falling out of the sky, and it is ticking in slow motion.
The light clock: where the slowdown comes from
Einstein's second postulate is the lever that moves everything: light travels at the same
speed c for every observer, no matter how fast the source or the
observer is moving. To see what that forces, build the simplest possible clock. Put two mirrors a
distance L apart and bounce a single pulse of light between them; each
round trip is one "tick".
At rest (in the clock's own frame) the light just goes straight up and straight
back, a distance 2L. Since it moves at c, one
tick takes a time we call the proper time \tau:
c\,\tau = 2L \quad\Longrightarrow\quad \tau = \frac{2L}{c}.
Now watch the same clock glide past you at speed v. While the
light is climbing from the bottom mirror to the top, the whole clock has moved sideways, so from your
seat the pulse follows a diagonal, and coming back down it follows another diagonal
— a stretched-out zig-zag. The light has further to travel. But it can't travel any faster
to make up the difference — its speed is stuck at c for you too. A longer
path at the same speed can only mean one thing: more time per tick. Reveal the
figure step by step to watch the vertical path stretch into the longer diagonal.
From the picture to the formula
Let t be the time you measure for one tick of the moving clock,
and \tau the proper time it measures for itself. Look at just the first
half-tick — the light going from the bottom mirror up to the top. In that half-tick:
- the pulse rises a height L = c\tau/2 (the vertical leg);
- the clock slides sideways by v\,t/2 (the horizontal leg);
- so the light itself travels the diagonal c\,t/2 (the hypotenuse).
Those three lengths form a right triangle, so Pythagoras ties them together:
\left(\frac{c\,t}{2}\right)^2 = \left(\frac{c\,\tau}{2}\right)^2 + \left(\frac{v\,t}{2}\right)^2.
Multiply through by 4 and gather the t terms:
c^2 t^2 - v^2 t^2 = c^2 \tau^2 \quad\Longrightarrow\quad t^2\left(c^2 - v^2\right) = c^2 \tau^2.
Divide by c^2, take the square root, and solve for
t:
t = \frac{\tau}{\sqrt{1 - v^2/c^2}}.
The quantity multiplying the proper time appears so often it gets its own name and symbol, the
Lorentz factor \gamma (gamma):
-
The Lorentz factor. Writing \beta = v/c for the speed
as a fraction of light speed,
\gamma = \dfrac{1}{\sqrt{1 - v^2/c^2}} = \dfrac{1}{\sqrt{1 - \beta^2}}.
-
Moving clocks run slow. A clock measuring proper time
\Delta\tau for itself is seen, by an observer it moves past, to take
the longer time \Delta t = \gamma\,\Delta\tau.
-
Proper time is the shortest. Because \gamma \ge 1
always, the time read on the clock that is present at both events (the proper time) is
the smallest anyone measures. Everyone else measures more.
Getting a feel for γ
The whole size of the effect lives in that one factor \gamma. The graph
plots it against \beta = v/c, from a standstill up to 99\%
of the speed of light.
Two things jump out. First, near \beta = 0 the curve is almost flat at
\gamma = 1: at everyday speeds \gamma differs
from 1 by less than a part in a trillion, which is exactly why you have
never noticed your watch slowing when you run for a bus. Second, as \beta \to 1
the curve turns almost vertical and shoots to infinity — at the speed of light a clock would freeze
entirely, and it would take an infinite factor (and infinite energy) to get a massive object there.
That is why nothing with mass can reach c.
Some handy values to carry around:
- \beta = 0.6 gives \gamma = 1.25 (clocks run 25% slow);
- \beta = 0.866 gives \gamma = 2 (time runs at half speed);
- \beta = 0.99 gives \gamma \approx 7.09;
- \beta = 0.999 gives \gamma \approx 22.4.
Worked examples
Example 1 — a fast spaceship. A ship flies past Earth at
\beta = 0.8 (that is v = 0.8c). The pilot's clock
ticks off \Delta\tau = 1\ \text{year} of proper time. How much time passes
on Earth? First the Lorentz factor:
\gamma = \frac{1}{\sqrt{1 - 0.8^2}} = \frac{1}{\sqrt{1 - 0.64}} = \frac{1}{\sqrt{0.36}} = \frac{1}{0.6} \approx 1.667.
\Delta t = \gamma\,\Delta\tau = 1.667 \times 1\ \text{year} \approx 1.67\ \text{years}.
The pilot ages one year while Earth ages one year and eight months. The moving clock (the pilot's)
recorded the smaller, proper time.
Example 2 — the muon, quantified. Take a muon moving at
\beta = 0.999, so \gamma \approx 22.4. In the
ground frame its average lifetime is stretched from
2.2\ \mu\text{s} to
\Delta t = \gamma\,\Delta\tau = 22.4 \times 2.2\ \mu\text{s} \approx 49\ \mu\text{s}.
In that stretched time, at nearly c, it travels roughly
c\,\Delta t \approx (3\times 10^8)(49\times 10^{-6}) \approx 15\ \text{km}
— precisely the depth of atmosphere it needs to cross. The muons make it to the ground because,
from our point of view, their clocks are running more than twenty times slow.
Example 3 — working backwards. An unstable particle is seen to live for
\Delta t = 5.0\ \mu\text{s} in the lab, but its true (proper) lifetime is
\Delta\tau = 2.0\ \mu\text{s}. How fast was it going? Its Lorentz factor is
\gamma = \Delta t/\Delta\tau = 2.5. Invert
\gamma = 1/\sqrt{1-\beta^2}:
\sqrt{1 - \beta^2} = \frac{1}{\gamma} = 0.4 \;\Longrightarrow\; 1 - \beta^2 = 0.16 \;\Longrightarrow\; \beta = \sqrt{0.84} \approx 0.917.
It was moving at about 0.92c.
Watch out — this is the trap that snags almost everyone, and the honest answer is:
neither, and both. Motion is relative. If I glide past you, I have every right to say
I am at rest and you are the one moving — the physics looks identical from either
seat (that is the first postulate). So you see my clock running slow, and I see yours
running slow, and we are both correct. There is no hidden "true" frame that settles
who is really moving; there is no cosmic master clock.
This sounds like a flat contradiction, but it isn't, because "your clock reads less than mine"
depends on which two events you compare and on the
relativity of
simultaneity — we disagree about which distant events happen "at the same time", and
that disagreement is exactly what makes the two slow-downs consistent rather than contradictory. The
symmetry only breaks if someone turns around and comes back, because turning around
means accelerating, which is not relative — you feel it, the other person doesn't. That
asymmetry is the resolution of the famous twin paradox, where the travelling twin
genuinely returns younger. Time dilation between two observers in steady motion is perfectly
reciprocal; only a change of frame can make the difference permanent.
They correct for it every second of every day. The GPS in your phone works by timing radio signals
from satellites to a few billionths of a second — light crosses about 30\ \text{cm}
in a nanosecond, so a clock error of a microsecond becomes a position error of hundreds of metres.
The satellites move fast enough that special-relativistic time dilation makes their clocks tick about
7\ \mu\text{s} per day slow relative to the ground. (There is a
larger, opposite general-relativistic effect from their weaker gravity, but the special-relativistic
piece is genuinely one of the terms.) The satellite clocks are deliberately built and adjusted to run
at a different rate so that, once in orbit, they agree with the ground. Switch the relativistic
correction off and GPS would drift useless within a day. Time dilation is not a curiosity — it is
infrastructure.