energyskeptic | Introduction - At 47,000 miles long and four plus lanes wide, the Dwight D.
Eisenhower System of Interstate and Defense Highways is the largest
public works project in history, dwarfing Egypt’s pyramids, the Panama
Canal, and China’s Great Wall. To build it, forests were felled and
mountains were leveled and overlaid with over three hundred million
cubic yards of concrete.
Roads are essential and define the physical United States, and so taken for granted they’re almost invisible.
The interstates are just 1% of the nation’s road mileage but carry a
trillion of the 4 trillion miles Americans travel each year. Many of the
vehicles are heavy trucks, which hammer bridges and pavements,
shortening road and bridge lifespans so much that to fix them, we’d need
to spend $225 billion a year for the next 50 years, and if we don’t,
replacement will cost three times as much. One in four of the country’s
nearly 600,000 bridges is structurally deficient or obsolete. Most were
designed to last 50 years. In 2008, they averaged 43 years old (p 319).
Peak Oil Makes Roads and Vehicles Obsolete – Why Fix them?
Swift says that these roads represent “a spectacular investment in a mode of transport that will wither without new fuel sources” (page 6).
We don’t have new fuel sources and never will, so why repair the
roads? That would only throw good money after bad. To avoid the hardest
possible landing, we might want to keep a few key local and regional
roads repaired, and let the thousands of miles of interstate between
regions go. Replace cars with buses, which are flexible, scalable,
easily re-routable, and cheap compared to passenger trains since they
can use existing roads.
What we have lost
When horses were the main mode of transportation, American towns were
compact, tightly settled, and roughly circular in layout. In the days
of the horse and buggy the road served as company. As a cart joggled by,
the farmer in the field or the housewife on her porch could hail it;
the horse would stop almost of his own accord, and a chat would follow.
But once the country road becomes a highway, filled with fast traffic
with cars driven mostly by strangers, not neighbors, the whole situation
is changed: the road ceases to be a symbol of sociability; it becomes
very largely a curse.
As John Steinbeck observed in 1962′s Travels with Charley: In Search of America:
“When we get these thruways across the whole country, as we will and
must, it will be possible to drive from New York to California without
seeing a single thing.”
A pilgrim of centuries past would have had much to report about the
country he’d traversed—the details of flora and fauna, the land’s shape
and character, the sounds and smells of village and field. He would have
noticed the moss on tree bark, the fast-moving stream, the lacework of
afternoon light on the forest floor. He might have startled deer and
bear, unalerted by his soft approach, or reveled in bird song. A later
traveler, riding horseback, might have spoken of the views he’d enjoyed,
but they would have been limited views, next to the walker’s. He would
have moved at a faster clip, and thus missed the tiny details of his
surroundings that only a leisurely pace revealed. Further on, a
stagecoach passenger had an even tighter range of experience; he beheld
landscape not only from a road’s fixed path, but as a moving picture
framed by his window, and his description of a long trip would likely
dwell less on the scenery than on the discomforts of the stage, the
bumps in the road, the passage itself. Trains erected a pane of glass
between traveler and country, and further insulated him by boosting his
speed. But with the modern car on the modern freeway, the modern
traveler was left with practically nothing to celebrate but the
ever-briefer time he had to devote to getting from one place to another.
He was sequestered not only from his setting, but from fellow
passengers, insulated from sound, smells, and climate. The details of
all that surrounded him were blurred by speed, too distant to make out,
or too distracting to enjoy. Scenery was held at arm’s length, beyond
the well-manicured right of way.