When Cycling (and Pedestrian) Safety Is Social Justice

 Yesterday I crossed the Rubicon.  All right, it was a Boulevard of Death.

Several New York City thoroughfare have earned that moniker over the years. I regularly crossed two of them—Queens and Northern Boulevards—when I lived in Astoria.  The, like the one I traversed yesterday, are what transportation planners call “stroads.” While classified as city streets because of their urban settings, they have four or more long, straight lanes with long stretches between traffic signals. This setup encourages motorists to drive well over the speed limit.

“Stroads” often  include merges with, and on- and-off-ramps for, major highways. They usually pass through commercial areas, which provide constant streams of cars pulling in and out of traffic. The stroad I crossed yesterday, however, cuts through residential areas.

Those residential areas include what have been, for decades, two of New York City’s poorest neighborhoods. In addition to the other difficulties of growing up and loving in poverty, residents have some of the worst health in the city and nation:  Heavy traffic contributes to high rates of asthma and other respiratory illnesses and its un-walkability and lack of green spaces means that people don’t exercise much. (There also isn’t a gym, which most residents couldn’t afford anyway,) And because there aren’t supermarkets or even bodegas along the way, fresh fruits and vegetables, and other healthy foods, are difficult to come by.

And, in contrast with Queens Boulevard, under which a city subway line runs, and Northern, which includes stops for other lines and the Long Island Rail Road (yes, they spell it as two words), the “stroad” I’m talking about is miles from any train station. Local buses run along parts of it and on some streets that cross it, but it’s difficult to piece together a route from where people live to where they work, go to school or shop, let alone visit family and friends in other areas.

Oh, and many people who live along and near Linden share a trait shared by others, rich and poor, in the Big Apple:  they don’t have cars, or even access to them. Thus, they are not the ones contributing to the nightmarish traffic situation.

The “stroad” in question is Linden Boulevard. It begins in Brooklyn, at Flatbush Avenue, and runs south and east for 20 kilometers (with an interruption at Aqueduct Race Track) to the Queens-Nassau County border, passing near JFK International Airport along the way. .In Brooklyn, Linden cuts through Brownsville and East New York, home to the greatest concentrations of public housing and percentages of residents—including children—living in poverty. Many of those kids must cross eight lanes of traffic—on some stretches, with no pedestrian islands or other barriers in the middle—to get to their often-overcrowded and under- funded schools. Some, and some adults going to work or to catch the bus, didn’t make it.

Linden Boulevard, like otner “stroads,” cries out for, in addition to pedestrian islands, dedicated bus and bike lanes and other improvements to mass transit and safety for anyone who is getting around without a car. Our new mayor, Zohran Mamdani, has announced plans for a redesign of the most dangerous stretch of Linden, which includes the intersection I crossed during yesterday’s ride.  While nothing is mentioned about bike lanes, the other improvements I mentioned, including more points where pedestrians can cross, should at least help to cut down on the reckless driving that plagues it.

Redesigning “stroads” like Linden Boulevard, therefore, isn’t just a matter of convenience: It’s imperative for safety—and social justice.

No Room To Maneuver

 In several of this blog’s posts, I have shown how poorly-designed, -built and -maintained bike lanes subject cyclists to more danger than they’d face on a street without a bike lane.

Yesterday, Joe Linton wrote about such a lane on Streetsblog LA.  Actually, he focused his attention on one segment of it: a stretch of DeSoto Avenue near Pierce College.

There, DeSoto is 80 feet (24.4 meters) wide, with seven lanes devoted to motor traffic.  It’s rimmed by a bike lane that, for most of its length is four or five feet (1.2 to 1.5 meters) wide, in keeping with current standards.  But at the intersection with El Rancho Road, in the community of Woodland Hills, it tapers to three feet (less than a meter), including the gutter.

In other bike lanes—including the four- and five foot sections of DeSoto—the gutter is included in the path’s width, not because cyclists are expected to ride in it, but to allow room for passing or other maneuvers, particularly when the lane runs next to a line of parked cars.  A three-foot width effectively eliminates any room to steer out of danger or to pass.

But, as Linton recounts, even the wider parts of the path aren’t adequate or safe for cyclists on DeSoto, which seems to fit the definition of a “stroad” and practically guarantees that motorists will exceed the speed limit—and, I imagine, use the bike lane for passing.

How Many "Drips" Will It Take To Wash Away A Stroad?

Charles Marohn's book is called The Confessions of a Recovering Engineer.  In it, the former road designer and transportation planner describes how conventional American traffic engineering makes people and communities less safe, destroys the fabric of communities, bankrupts towns and cities and exacerbates the very problems--like congestion--engineers like himself were trying to solve.

His greatest disdain is for what he calls "stroads."  I mentioned them in an August post. Think of them as Franken-lanes:  They are supposed to be streets in cities and towns but in reality are highways with multiple lanes of high-speed traffic.  (Even if the speed limit is more like that of an urban or residential street--say, 30 mph (50 kph), drivers are often sprinting at twice that between lights.) They are usually lined with big-box stores and other businesses that provide a steady stream of cars and trucks pulling in and out of the lanes.

Examples of "stroads" in my area are the Hempstead Turnpike, which I wrote about in an earlier post, West Street (a.k.a. Route 9A) in Manhattan and, even closer to home, Northern and Queens Boulevards.  A particularly egregious example of a "stroad" is US 19 on Florida's Gulf Coast.  

In some places, particularly in the southern and western US states, cyclists use "stroads" because there are few or no alternative routes.  Even if a cyclist is not riding along the route itself, he or she probably will need to cross it because, as Mahron points out, they often divide downtown areas, leaving, say, a store somebody frequents on one side and a doctor or other service provider on the other.  Or said cyclist might live on one side of the stroad and want to go to a park or movie theatre--or need to get to school or work--on the other side.

Michael Weilert discovered this danger the hard way.  He was crossing, with his bicycle, one such stroad--Pacific Avenue (a.k.a. State Route 7) in Tacoma, Washington--when he was struck and killed in a crosswalk.  Last week, a hundred people gathered for a silent ride at the site where Michael's life ended after only 13 years.

Photo by Carla Gramlich for Strong Towns

While such tragedies motivate the families, friends and immediate communities of victims, they don't lead to fundamental change because of what Marohn calls the "drip, drip, drip" effect.  When hundreds of people are killed, say, in a plane crash or building collapse, it gets the attention of planners, policy-makers and, sometimes, politicians.  On the other hand, incidents like the one that claimed young Michael Weilert usually claim one, or a few victims, so they receive less notice.

How many more "drips" will it take before those in authority see a tidal wave?

 

Where Are Cyclists Most In Danger? On Stroads.

When a plane crashes, the first thing investigators look for is "pilot error."

When a motor vehicle crashes, the authorities ask questions like, "Was the driver intoxicated?  Was he or she texting?"

When a pedestrian is struck, the focus turns to matters like what the pedestrian was wearing.  Could he or she not be seen in the dark?

And when I crashed, the first things the police wanted to know were:  Was I wearing a helmet?  Was I following all relevant traffic laws?  Was I intoxicated?  ("Yes" to the first two questions; "No" to the third.)

In other words, when what are commonly called "accidents" occur, the first inclination of investigators is to look for "human error."  While some mishaps are indeed a result of drinking, texting or other distractions, or of carelessness, as often as not, the blame lies elsewhere.

Jessie Singer, the author of There Are No Accidents, offers this explanation:  We focus on individual blame because it makes it easier to believe that it couldn't happen to us.  As an example, I grew up in a place and time in which women and girls were blamed for getting raped:  If she hadn't been wherever she was whenever she was, wearing whatever she was, it wouldn't have happened to her. Or so people believed. But, as we all know, there are all sorts of situation in which someone "did everything right" and still suffered an "accident" or is somehow victimized.  

The problem with the focus on individual behavior, according to Singer, is that it prevents the structural changes necessary to prevent recurrences of crashes or other mishaps.  

Charles Marohn would agree.  He is an engineer who used to work on road design.  The most dangerous roads for everyone--but especially cyclists, pedestrians and the disabled--are what he calls "stroads":  thoroughfares that combine the worst traits of roads and streets.  Roads, he said, are designed to move people and vehicles from one place to another.  Well-designed roads, he explains, are usually wide, with lots of lanes and clear zones on either side to make driver errors less deadly. Streets, on the other hand, are places where people live, shop, eat and play.  The deadliest roads in America, like a stretch of US-19 on Florida's Gulf Coast, are what he would call "stroads": several lanes of high-speed traffic lined with big-box stores and other businesses that provide a steady stream of cars and trucks pulling in and out of those lanes.  

Of course, the design of such roads isn't the only reason why pedestrian and cyclist injuries and fatalities have increased:  Vehicles have grown bigger and, thus, deadlier.  But Singer and Marohn agree that re-designing roadways will do far more to improve safety for cyclists, pedestrians, people in wheelchairs--and drivers--than focusing solely on the behavior of people who use, or simply try to co-exist, with the road.  As evidence, they point out that the "hot spots" for cyclist and pedestrian fatalities and deaths are found in places as diverse as Port Ritchey, Florida (one of the communities through which US-19 passes), Langley Park, Maryland; Albuquerque, New Mexico; Los Angeles and Manhattan.  But nearly all of them have the kinds of "roads" or "stroads" Marohn warns against.