A book review by Alice Friedemann of:
Swift, Earl. 2012. The Big Roads: The Untold Story of the Engineers, Visionaries, and Trailblazers Who Created the American Superhighways.
$46 Trillion Infrastructure in USA, $6 Trillion is Transportation
Expressways & Interstates are only designed to last for 20 years
A Century from Now Concrete Will be Nothing But Rubble
Transportation: How long can we adapt before we fall off the Net Energy Cliff?
More diesel for tractors & trucks, less gas for cars
Book review of “Prime Movers of Globalization: the History & Impact of Diesel Engines & Gas Turbines”
Much of what’s below are Swift’s exact words, or paraphrased words, though the captions and a few comments are mine. The vast majority of the book is spent on who, what, why, when and where the highways were build. But I’m more interested in the energy and material resources, the damage roads and vehicles did to our society and landscape, and what it used to be like to travel on foot or on horse, since that’s eventually where we’re headed….
At nearly 47,000 miles long and at least 4 lanes wide, the Dwight D. Eisenhower System of Interstate and Defense Highways is the greatest public works project in history, dwarfing Egypt’s pyramids, the Panama Canal, and China’s Great Wall. Its construction saw forests felled, mountains leveled, and rivers bridged, tunneled, or picked up and moved, and it incorporates nearly three hundred million cubic yards of concrete. It has smoothed what was once rough country, enabling us to cruise at a mile a minute across desert and bog, rangeland and Appalachian hollow.
Roads are intrinsic to our everyday life, to the modern American experience, to what defines the physical United States. They form the nation’s commercial and cultural grid, binding its regions, bridging its dialects, snaking into every state and every major city to the point they’re almost invisible, one of those features of the landscape that we take for granted.
We’ve come to so rely on interstate highways that to drive across the country on lesser roads is a nostalgic adventure. Which makes it all the more remarkable that most Americans are oblivious to how this behemoth came to be, and why it was built how and where it was.
The interstates are just 1% of the nation’s road mileage but carry 25% of the 3 trillion miles Americans travel each year. Many of the vehicles are heavy trucks, which hammer bridges and pavements. The roads are falling apart now. We need to spend $225 billion a year for the next 50 years, and if we don’t, then 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.
Yet why repair the roads at all? That would only throw good money after bad. We are at peak oil now and don’t have the energy to repair these roads.
Swift says that these roads represent “a spectacular investment in a mode of transport that will wither without new fuel sources”.
Don’t blame Detroit Fat Cats: Americans wanted cars
Americans loved everything about their cars, loved driving, loved impulsively going wherever they chose, without a thought to routes or timetables. They loved that they lorded over their surroundings while they did it. They were cocooned, protected from the world, even as they were free to explore it. They could ride in silence or with the radio blaring, need never surrender personal space to a sweaty, foul-smelling stranger, need not suffer inane chatter. They thrilled to the sensation and sound of movement, the buffet of air through an open window, a big engine’s growl and punch. They embraced the status reflected in chrome trim, the subtext each model offered as to income and station and sex appeal. What wasn’t to love about the car? Americans took to it not only willingly, but with gusto. They did not have an automotive life foisted on them; they did not buy homes far from work, or forsake mass transit, or pave over their cities because they were manipulated into doing so by Detroit fat cats, or a government-industry conspiracy, or anyone else. No such subterfuge was necessary. The people chose their path. They wanted what they were getting.
Highways and Roads Ruined our Nation
Roads created the messy sprawl of U.S. cities
Carved up neighborhoods
Gutted tens of thousands of small-town shopping districts
Fostered the predictable chains of fast-food and motels and fast-food, destroying local restaurants and businesses, channeling the wealth of society to the upper 1%
Drive-in movie theaters drive-in banks, drive-in laundries, and drive-in restaurants
“The elements of what today we think of as ‘the environment’ or ‘ecosystem’ were simply obstacles, like mountains or rivers, to be overcome with the best engineering skills and construction equipment available to the era.”
Death. In 1929, when a new automobile rolled off an assembly line every six seconds, a life was lost to one of the machines every sixteen minutes.
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.
Streetcars, far faster than carriages, had lengthened the distance workers could cover on their morning and evening commutes; soon suburbs had sprung up within a short walk of the radiating streetcar lines, so that the settlement resembled the spokes of a wheel. Now the automobile was further pushing the boundaries of settlement. And as the city spread like a stain, it lost its human scale and thus its capacity to enrich. Its shopping and jobs were concentrated in a center that was increasingly taxing to reach. Its homes were overcrowded warehouses stripped of privacy, or suburban cottages metastasizing in the green fringe that had just yesterday represented out-of-town escape. With each passing month, the countryside receded as the metropolis oozed outward, spilling suburb into farm field and city into suburb.
Cars gobbled vast stores of steel, lead, zinc, rubber, corn, and beeswax; each year the auto industry further consumed the wool of seventeen million sheep, the hides of a half-million cattle, and a mountain of ground walnut shells, which were put to use in automatic transmissions.
Big roads played hell with drainage patterns and water quality. All that concrete encouraged flooding, and salts and oils carried in runoff poisoned nearby ponds and streams and fostered the growth of invasive weeds. Rural interstates presented insurmountable barriers to small mammals, turtles, and amphibians, one study concluding that a four-lane divided highway was as much a barrier to small creatures as a body of fresh water twice as wide. The slaughter of game by auto approached, and would soon exceed, that by hunting.
Here’s what $1 billion bought back in 1962: 16,000,000 barrels of cement, over 500,000 tons of steel, 18,000,000 pounds of explosives, 123,000,000 gallons of petroleum products, enough earth to bury New Jersy knee-deep, and 76,000,000 tons of aggregate– the United States could not mine enough rock to rebuild the interstates today.
America spent $130 billion on the interstate highway system. $22 billion of that was fixing Boston’s “Big Dig” array of tunnels and bridges. There are 55,000 bridges, many of them miles long. Maintaining 47,000 miles of highways will cost billions more.
The interstates eased the path of meat and produce from farm to market, but rights of way cost farmers and their spreads dearly, for each mile of interstate devoured 30 to 40 acres of ground; in Iowa alone, officials reckoned that their 710 miles of freeway would devour 26,000 acres of productive cropland, or more than forty square miles. And interstates didn’t thread carefully among adjoining properties. They blundered through them, dividing farms, isolating pieces beyond four lanes of impenetrable concrete and rebar.
By 1966 American highways occupied an area the size of West Virginia.
In “The American Way of Death,” published in the New York Review of Books in April 1966, Mumford reprised his attack on “that religion for whose evidences of power and glory the American people, with eyes devoutly closed, are prepared to sacrifice some 59,000 lives every year, and to maim, often irreparably, some three million more.”
My comment: Finite oil could have been stretched out for hundreds of years with mass transit, but was blown on billions of trips to and from suburban sprawl.
City after city saw its downtown jobs flatline while openings exploded on the metropolitan fringe. Factories and warehouses sprawled on the cheaper land out there, and retailers were planting satellite stores amid their shifting customer base or abandoning downtown altogether. Mass transit worked only when its riders shared common destinations for work, entertainment, and shopping. Combine the suburbs’ low-density housing with jobs scattered hither and yon, and no transit system—certainly not one on fixed rails, anyway—could do much to relieve dependence on the automobile, even if allowed to operate deep in the red.
Clearing a path for the interstates required the taking of more than 750,000 properties.
Traffic jams cost New Yorkers more than $1 billion a year in fuel, engine wear, lost productivity, missed sales; a quarter of all the gasoline consumed in American cities was burned, it was said, while motorists sat in traffic.
By 1963, when the interstates were just making tentative inroads into most urban areas, the population of America’s suburbs surpassed that of the cities they ringed. The new houses came fast and cheap, thanks to mass-production techniques that had stamped out hundreds of Liberty ships and thousands of bombers during the war.
James W. Rouse, a Baltimore developer, described the process: “A farm is sold and begins raising houses instead of potatoes, then another farm; forests are cut; valleys are filled; streams are buried in storm sewers; kids overflow the schools; here a new school is built, there a church. Traffic grows; roads are widened; service stations and hamburger stands pockmark the highway. Relentlessly, the bits and pieces of a city are splattered across the landscape.”
Lewis Mumford Detested Highways
Mumford was an American historian, sociologist, philosopher of technology, and literary critic. Particularly noted for his study of cities and urban architecture, he had a broad career as a writer.
Cities “worked” not just when they balanced their books, or kept crime off the streets, or picked up the garbage in a timely fashion, but when they fulfilled their more important function of facilitating human interaction—which was, after all, the reason people gathered in cities in the first place. By extension, good architecture incorporated as much sociology as it did engineering or design. A building’s scale and orientation, its relationship to its neighbors, the mood it created in those who beheld it, could fuel a neighborhood’s vitality or hamper it. The width of streets, the presence of trees, the press of high-rises—all were important.
Mumford came to see expressways as the wasteful, disruptive, and stupid, absorbing funds badly needed for schools, hospitals, libraries and other facilities.”
He castigated highway engineers for behaving “as if motor transportation existed in a social vacuum” and “building more roads, bridges, and tunnels so that more motorcars may travel more quickly to more remote destinations in more chaotic communities, from which more roads will be built so that more motorists may escape from these newly soiled and clotted environments.” “Our transportation experts are only expert whittlers, and the proof of it is that their end product is not a new urban form but a scattered mass of human shavings. Instead of curing congestion, they widen chaos.”
Mumford passionately believed in the organic aspect of cities, and in their atmosphere, their personality, their feel. New superhighways pumped an ever-heavier flow of cars onto streets and avenues designed for a New York of 4-story buildings. Now “we have in effect piled from three to ten early Manhattans on top of each other. If the average height of these buildings was only twelve stories, the roadway and sidewalks flanking them should, according to the original ratio, be 200 feet wide, the entire width of the standard New York block.”
Mumford attacked the year-old interstate system in 1957, an opening salvo in what would come to be called the Freeway Revolt, making him a darling, to this day, of urban planners, anti-sprawl activists, and critics of the suburban lifestyle. He went straight for the jugular on taking the stage. The interstate program was bound to bring destruction, not salvation, to the nation’s cities. It had been founded “on a very insufficient study” of highways, rather than transportation—on “blunders of one-dimensional thinking”—and would benefit only the “fantastic and insolent chariots” that jammed the streets, “the second mistress that exists in every household right alongside the wife—the motor car.” Want to save the cities? Forget about roads. The solution, Mumford said, lay in restoring a human scale to urban life, in “making it possible for the pedestrian to exist.” A choice was looming, for “either the motor car will drive us all out of the cities, or the cities will have to drive out the motor car.” Americans should “apply our intelligence to the purposes of life,” he said, concluding: “That means eventually we will put the motor car in its place.”
“The wide swathes of land devoted to cloverleaves, and even more complicated multi-level interchanges, to expressways … butcher up precious urban space in exactly the same way that freight yards and marshalling yards did when the railroads dumped their passengers and freight inside the city.” They devoured not only open land, but real estate already occupied by people and homes. “Perhaps our age will be known to the future historian as the age of the bulldozer and the exterminator, and in many parts of the country the building of a highway has about the same result upon vegetation and human structures as the passage of a tornado or the blast of an atom bomb. The hell of it was, all that disruption would do nothing to ease congestion. Here was a tool that “actually expands the evil it is meant to overcome, and which would continue doing so until that terminal point when all the business and industry that originally gave rise to the congestion move out of the city, to escape strangulation, leaving a waste of expressways and garages behind them. This is pyramid building with a vengeance: a tomb of concrete roads and ramps covering the dead corpse of a city.
People finally fight Highways
Too late, San Franciscans realized that they’d permitted a terrible blunder. In place of their waterfront—which, though partially blocked by low buildings, offered one of the most breathtaking urban vistas in the world, overlooking the shimmering bay and Alcatraz Island—they now saw an unadorned gray concrete barricade rising, at its peak, fifty-seven feet from the city’s historic Embarcadero. It cast its surroundings in all-day twilight, severed downtown from the docks that had birthed it, and ran smack across the face of a beloved landmark, the Ferry Building, a gathering spot for generations and a survivor of the 1906 earthquake. To tens of thousands of San Franciscans, the Embarcadero Freeway seemed less a highway than a vivisection. Petitions circulated. Protest groups bloomed. And the public’s outrage was shared by the city fathers: on January 27, 1959, citing “the demolition of homes, the destruction of residential areas, the forced uprooting and relocation of individuals, families and business enterprises,” the Board of Supervisors approved a resolution opposing 7 of the 10 freeways planned for the city, including the yet-unbuilt western two-thirds of I-480. This meant refusing $280 million in Federal Aid money, an unthinkable act in the eyes of most municipal officials. It was a vote heard around the country. Not only did it effectively kill the state’s ambitions for a lavish freeway grid through town, it reverberated with every American confronted by expressways he wasn’t sure he wanted.
So it was for towns throughout the States. Mom-and-pop businesses on superseded U.S. highways watched their customers vanish as the interstates continued their crawl across the continent. As Florida Trend magazine would cry in 1965, the interstate system “diverts traffic away from former arteries of travel, drains the life’s blood from established firms which are situated on the old highways and leaves them to die.”
Small-town shopping districts weren’t just losing business to the exits, but to bigger towns suddenly made closer by the new highways’ speed and convenience. Why shop for back-to-school clothes in Conway, when much bigger Lebanon was now half as far away as it had been, in terms of driving time? Why settle for the meager pickings in Eagle Rock, Virginia, when the malls of Roanoke were a quick jaunt down I-81?
Baltimore: Older cities around the country were beset with similar problems, and in each, as in Baltimore, that will was crumbling. A confluence of national trends was shifting the mood of the governed. Historic preservation was becoming a cause beyond the ranks of intelligentsia; Vietnam had created doubt that government knew what it was doing and had the people’s best interests at heart; the civil rights movement had encouraged them to take their grievances to the streets and courts. And perhaps most important, the environmental movement had gained footing among a widening swath of America.
Driving is boring, removes us from nature and other people
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.
Motorists seeking relief from the monotony of the drive found that the system’s sameness wasn’t limited to its right of way, for it wasn’t but a handful of years before the mom-and-pop businesses that had moved out from Main Street were joined by national chains, and the mercantile knots at the exits soon seemed cut from a stencil.
What was it about assembly-line food that drew customers by the millions? For starters, it was cheap. But more than that, it answered a growing demand for speed and simplicity. A motorist making good time on the interstate wasn’t inclined to spend time eating a sit-down meal. And the chains’ drive for efficient mass production mirrored a desire in the American public for predictable quality—for preferring the everyday but familiar to a surprise, good or bad.
In 1966, Americans owned 57% of the world’s passenger cars, drove 922 billion miles, made 92% of their intercity trips by road.
We almost used 23 atomic bombs
In 1963, the Atomic Energy Commission and the California State Division of Highways started Project Carryall to determine if atomic bombs could be used to blow up the Bristol mountains near Barstow California, so the I-40 highway and railroad could be built faster and cheaper. The study group of engineers and scientists thought 22 carefully placed atomic bombs would do the trick in a flash with a 36% discount over years of going about it the old way. This would be 60 times as powerful as the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombs combined. Each bomb packed 20 to 200 kilotons of explosive punch and would vaporize 68 million cubic yards of mountain, creating a chain of connected craters more than two miles long, as much as 340 feet deep, and 330 feet wide at the bottom—plenty big enough for twin railroad tracks and a full-size interstate. A 23rd bomb would blast a reservoir into the desert to collect runoff during storms.
What a shame everyone was smitten with railroads, when buses make more sense
Frank Turner was the chief engineer of the interstate system. He was very keen on mass transit, as long as it was provided by bus, and good reasons for believing this. He pointed out that rail-based transit could not attract enough riders to justify the fortune it would cost to build, partly because it couldn’t be adapted to changing travel patterns. Cities had changed since the days of the streetcar, were spread too far and wide for fixed-rail to take many people from where they were to where they wanted to go. Buses, on the other hand, made excellent sense. Fifty or sixty could move as many people as three thousand cars, provide almost door-to-door service, and follow routes that could be adjusted as needed—and they piggybacked on an investment already in place, thus requiring no costly new infrastructure. By boosting the number of buses on the highways, you could actually reduce the need for more highways. Like all his views, his enthusiasm for the bus was supported by research, by statistics. He could cite a 1962 study that showed that buses and subways moved people for about the same cost (3.2 cents per person per mile) but that buses were far, far cheaper to put into service. He could point to 1968 research that showed a single express lane devoted to buses could move the same number of commuters as four lanes of freeway.
Turner could not fathom why environmentalists, the press, and anti-highway activists didn’t embrace the bus, or why they were so smitten with rail-based transit. The “infinite combinations of routes and schedules required by today’s urban dwellers dictates that any transportation system must provide flexibility of route, destination and schedules. That’s why fixed-route systems which are basically spoke lines attached to a downtown hub have such a hard time financing themselves in the fare box.
His favorite whipping boy became the Washington Metro, a cut-and-cover subway system that would initially cover 98 miles and cost about $3 billion, an amount equal to everything spent on the capital region’s roads since the very beginning of white settlement there—about $4,000 per household. “What a huge capital expenditure to provide for the movement of about 5% of the transportation load within Washington’s metropolitan area. Just the annual interest on the debt would buy about 5,000 new buses every year for the whole life of Metro.
Roads started because of demands from bicyclists
When Fisher was born in Greensburg, Indiana, in 1874, the automobile’s American debut was still two decades away. Overland travel was the province of the train. Look at any map of Indiana from the period—or any other state, for that matter—and you’ll see tangles of thick black lines converging on the major cities; smaller settlements are reduced to dots on those lines, indistinguishable from those marking their neighbors, the size and character of each less important than its status as a station stop. Most of the old maps don’t depict a single road. They were there, but hardly in the form we think of them. The routes out of most any town in America were “wholly unclassifiable, almost impassable, scarcely jackassable,” as folks said then—especially when spring and fall rains transformed the simple dirt tracks into a heavy muck, more glue than earth. In Indiana, as elsewhere, people braved them to the train and back, or to roll their harvest from their farms to the nearest grain elevator. For any trip beyond that, they went by rail.
Some of the first bicycles had enormous front and tiny rear wheels, and saddles perched as high as 5 feet off the ground. Fisher opened a shop to fix them. He advertised the business by spending a lot of time on one himself and developing a reputation as borderline crazy. He’d always been an athletic, daring kid, handy at walking tightropes, able to sprint backward faster than friends could do it face-on, and enthralled by speed, especially by the hell-for-leather, white-knuckle speed of which was essentially brakeless. On steep downhills, the best a rider could do was brace his feet on the handlebars, so that if he crashed, which seemed a good bet—the bike stopped cold, with calamitous results, if that big front wheel encountered an obstacle— he’d at least go flying right-side up. It didn’t much faze Fisher that he was half-blind with astigmatism and had so many wrecks that his friends dubbed him “Crip.” Just climbing onto one of the machines gave him a thrill. Racing them was intoxicating. In short order he landed a spot on a traveling race team led by a speed demon named Barney Oldfield and toured county fairs throughout the Midwest. The shop thrived. Fisher soon had the biggest store in town.
It became a gathering place for the city’s cycling fraternity—members of the local Zig-Zag Cycle Club, and of a national organization called the League of American Wheelmen. Every day, the conversation came around to cycling’s most urgent need: roads on which to ride. A spin on even a safety bike was likely to be a jarring experience in the 1890s, when city streets were paved, assuming they were paved at all, with cobblestone, brick, or uneven granite block, and snarled with carts, buggies, and horsemen. Outside the business districts, roads dwindled to little more than wagon ruts. In suburban Indianapolis, as out in the sticks, a sprinkling of rain could turn them to bogs; their mud lay deep and loose, could suck the boots off a farmer’s feet, prompted travelers to quit the established path for the open fields. Some swallowed horses to their flanks; the unfortunate buggy that ventured down such a muddy lane soon flailed past its axles in the ooze. Even on hard-packed roads, mud formed dark rooster tails behind surreys, spattered long skirts, caked shoes. American business was conducted in mud-soiled suits, as were law, medicine, and church services. And mixed with the mud was a liberal helping of manure, for city and country alike were dependent on the horse.
Cyclists thus found their hobby not as pleasant as it could be, and the League of American Wheelmen committed to doing something about it. A year after Fisher opened his store, the league launched a magazine, Good Roads, that became an influential mouthpiece for road improvement. Its articles were widely reprinted, which attracted members who didn’t even own bikes; at the group’s peak, Fisher and more than 102,000 others were on the rolls, and the Good Roads Movement was too big for politicians to ignore. Yes, the demand for roads was pedal-powered, and a national cause even before the first practical American car rolled out of a Chicopee, Massachusetts, shop in 1893.
A few months ahead of the Duryea Motor Wagon’s debut, Congress authorized the secretary of agriculture to “make inquiry regarding public roads” and to investigate how they might be improved. So it was that in October 1893, agriculture secretary J. Sterling Morton created the Office of Road Inquiry and appointed to head it one Gen. Roy Stone, a Civil War veteran, civil engineer, and vociferous good roads booster from New York. His appointment was the sort of circular affair—a lobbyist pushing for government action that he winds up leading—that wouldn’t fly today but was business as usual in the nineteenth century. Stone considered it “settled” that Americans “have the worst roads in the civilized world,” and that their condition was “a crushing tax on the whole people, a tax the more intolerable in that it yields no revenue.” Spending nothing on bad roads cost more than spending money to make them better, he argued, in squandered productivity, spoiled crops, high food prices.
The Post Office: another reason to build roads
The post office inaugurated Rural Free Delivery in 1896, which promised home mail service on roads passable enough to permit it—a mighty popular idea among rural farmers, who until then had viewed good roads and the taxes they required as schemes favoring big-city dandies on their bikes.
Horseless Carriages arrive
Of Carl Fisher’s many adventures, his homecoming from New York gets short shrift from his biographers, because if it went down as advertised, it was a remarkable feat: he’s said to have driven back to Indianapolis in a car he bought at the auto show. That would place him among the pioneers of long-distance motoring; though horseless carriages were gaining a small following as pricey diversions for the urban well-to-do, they were fragile, wheezy, and wide open to the elements, and depended on roads that remained barely passable. An afternoon jaunt to the country involved flat tires, breakdowns, and as much digging as driving, and was slow going in even the best of circumstances. Horseless carriages were dangerous—heavy, tippy, slow to stop, and lacking any restraints or padding.
America’s first overland routes started out as game trails
America’s principal overland routes were descended from prehistory— they’d started as game trails, had been commandeered by Native American hunting parties, and later were widened into wagon roads by white settlers. Over decades of use, they’d been cleared of stumps—at least the big ones—but much of their engineering remained the work of buffalo and elk. Improving on that was no easy matter.
Most roads were bare-dirt scars flanked by deep and weedy ditches. The newer ones had high crowns, their edges sloping downhill from their centers to drain water, but it wasn’t long before they were mashed into concavity and diabolically rutted. Some highways were dragged, meaning that after a rain a neighboring landowner would hitch a horse to a rig of split logs and pull it over the ruts to flatten them out. Rebuilding a road consisted of shoveling dirt from its sides into the middle, then tamping it down. Grading with a horse-drawn blade was a cause for local celebration.
How the first roads were built (also see “Why is modern concrete falling apart?”)
A concentration of heavy freight wagons, or “horse trucks,” had forced cities to pave their business districts, but the stone used for the purpose was far too expensive for rural roads built and maintained by county and local governments, which had little income and could tax their citizens only so much. Rains turned rural roads into quagmires. Even the best country road of the early twentieth century was primitive. The most common “improvement” was simply to grade a dirt road’s surface, in an attempt to smooth its bumps and fill its ruts. A step up was sand-clay construction, for which a mix of the two soils would be imported and spread on an earthen bed; the result in theory, was a surface that drained well and with traffic achieved a smooth hardness, but it also broke down quickly under heavy loads.
A little better was the gravel road, on which river rock or broken stone was spread on a graded bed; it held up better than dirt, especially to horse traffic, but had to be dressed regularly to keep the gravel from scattering, and it was stripped bare by the skinny tires and higher speeds of cars and trucks.
The most popular solution to that dilemma was macadam. It pre-dated the automobile by nearly 80 years after it was noticed gravel highways didn’t become smooth and durable until a lot of traffic had compressed their stone into a unified, interlocking mass. In 1816 a smooth dirt bed was covered with a ten-inch layer of stone broken especially for the purpose by workers armed with small hammers, then passed over the rock with a heavy, horse-drawn roller. The sharp-edged stones knitted into a tight bond. American road builders refined his system by spreading a thick layer of large broken stone onto graded earth, rolling it, covering it with a second layer of much smaller stone, and rolling it again. The surface with rock dust, hosed down with water, and rolled it a third time. “Water-bound macadam,” this was called, and it performed well under normal loads and low speeds. To keep dust down, workers topped it with a thin layer of asphalt, a black, sticky, molasses-like petroleum goop or coal-derived tar, which also kept the rock in place. The roads of today are asphaltic concrete, a blend of asphalt or tar and an aggregate, or filler, most commonly broken rock or gravel.
Why people were eager to switch from horses to cars and trucks
Horses required stabling, feed, and health care, which nationally amounted to $2 billion a year, or as much as it cost to maintain all of America’s railroads. Feeding the typical horse consumed five acres of tillable land per annum; devoted to food for people, the nation’s feed-producing cropland could support millions. Horses are slow and can’t keep going fast for long and need frequent rest, food, water. Horses had to work seven times as hard on a dirt road as on a hard, smooth rock surface, and asphalt and brick offered even easier going.
Eisenhower does not deserve the credit for these roads
These highways didn’t come from Ike or his lieutenants. By the time Eisenhower signed the bill that financed the system, in June 1956, most of its physical details were old news. Its routing had been committed to paper for 18 years. The specifics of its design had been decided for 12. Franklin Roosevelt had a greater hand in its creation than Eisenhower did, and the system’s origins go back much further than him. The true parents were anonymous career technocrats. If the system bore the name of the man most responsible for its existence, it would be called the Thomas H. MacDonald System of Interstate and Defense Highways, who conceived of the network and proposed its construction before World War II.