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CONVERSIONS BETWEEN U.S. CUSTOMARY UNITS AND SI UNITS
Acceleration (linear)
foot per second squared ft/s2 0.3048* 0.305 meter per second squared m/s2
inch per second squared in./s2 0.0254* 0.0254 meter per second squared m/s2
Area
circular mil cmil 0.0005067 0.0005 square millimeter mm2
square foot ft2 0.09290304* 0.0929 square meter m2
square inch in.2 645.16* 645 square millimeter mm2
Density (mass)
slug per cubic foot slug/ft3 515.379 515 kilogram per cubic meter kg/m3
Density (weight)
pound per cubic foot lb/ft3 157.087 157 newton per cubic meter N/m3
pound per cubic inch lb/in.3 271.447 271 kilonewton per cubic
meter kN/m3
Energy; work
foot-pound ft-lb 1.35582 1.36 joule (Nm) J
inch-pound in.-lb 0.112985 0.113 joule J
kilowatt-hour kWh 3.6* 3.6 megajoule MJ
British thermal unit Btu 1055.06 1055 joule J
Force
pound lb 4.44822 4.45 newton (kgm/s2) N
kip (1000 pounds) k 4.44822 4.45 kilonewton kN
Force per unit length
pound per foot lb/ft 14.5939 14.6 newton per meter N/m
pound per inch lb/in. 175.127 175 newton per meter N/m
kip per foot k/ft 14.5939 14.6 kilonewton per meter kN/m
kip per inch k/in. 175.127 175 kilonewton per meter kN/m
Length
foot ft 0.3048* 0.305 meter m
inch in. 25.4* 25.4 millimeter mm
mile mi 1.609344* 1.61 kilometer km
Mass
slug lb-s2/ft 14.5939 14.6 kilogram kg
Moment of a force; torque
pound-foot lb-ft 1.35582 1.36 newton meter N·m
pound-inch lb-in. 0.112985 0.113 newton meter N·m
kip-foot k-ft 1.35582 1.36 kilonewton meter kN·m
kip-inch k-in. 0.112985 0.113 kilonewton meter kN·m
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CONVERSIONS BETWEEN U.S. CUSTOMARY UNITS AND SI UNITS (Continued)
5
Temperature Conversion Formulas T(°C) [T(°F) 32] T(K) 273.15
9
5
T(K) [T(°F) 32] 273.15 T(°C) 273.15
9
9 9
T(°F) T(°C) 32 T(K) 459.67
5 5
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Traffic and
Highway
Engineering
ENHANCED Fif th Edition
SI Edition
Nicholas J. Garber
Lester A. Hoel
University of Virginia
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Traffic and Highway Engineering, © 2020, 2015, 2009 Cengage Learning, Inc.
Enhanced Fifth Edition, SI Edition Unless otherwise noted, all content is © Cengage
Nicholas J. Garber, Lester A. Hoel
WCN: 02-300
Product Director, Global Engineering: ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this work covered by the
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This book is dedicated to our wives,
Ada and Unni
and to our daughters,
Alison, Elaine, and Valerie
and
Julie, Lisa, and Sonja
With appreciation for the support, help, and encouragement that we received
during the years that were devoted to writing this textbook.
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Contents
P a r t 1 j Introduction 1
1 The Profession of Transportation 3
Importance of Transportation 3
Transportation History 6
Transportation Employment 15
Summary 21
Problems 22
References 23
P a r t 2 j Traffic Operations 51
3 Characteristics of the Driver, the Pedestrian,
the Bicyclist, the Vehicle, and the Road 53
Driver Characteristics 54
Perception-Reaction Process 57
Older Drivers’ Characteristics 58
vii
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viii Contents
Pedestrian Characteristics 58
Bicyclists and Bicycles Characteristics 59
Vehicle Characteristics 60
Road Characteristics 84
Summary 87
Problems 88
References 91
5 Highway Safety 151
Issues Involved in Transportation Safety 152
Strategic Highway Safety Plans 155
Performance Measures 185
Computational Procedures for Safety Effectiveness
Evaluation Methods 210
Crash Patterns 218
Effectiveness of Safety Design Features 223
Safety Effectiveness of Some Commonly
Used Highway Design Features 225
Safety Effects of Pedestrian Facilities 233
Safety Effects of Traffic Calming Strategies 236
Safety Impact of Intelligent Transportation Systems (ITS) 247
Summary 248
Problems 249
References 251
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Contents ix
7 Intersection Design 307
Types of at-Grade Intersections 309
Design Principles for at-Grade Intersections 315
Design of Railroad Grade Crossings 356
Summary 362
Problems 363
References 366
8 Intersection Control 367
General Concepts of Traffic Control 370
Conflict Points at Intersections 370
Types of Intersection Control 371
Signal Timing for Different Color Indications 388
Freeway Ramps 438
Evaluation and Optimization of Intersection Timing Plans 443
Summary 444
Problems 444
References 447
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x Contents
Summary 581
Problems 581
References 582
P a r t 3 j Transportation Planning 583
11 The Transportation Planning Process 585
Basic Elements of Transportation Planning 586
Transportation Planning Institutions 595
Urban Transportation Planning 599
Forecasting Travel 606
Summary 622
Problems 623
References 624
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Contents xi
16 Highway Drainage 837
Surface Drainage 838
Highway Drainage Structures 839
Sediment and Erosion Control 841
Hydrologic Considerations 842
Unit Hydrographs 855
Hydraulic Design of Highway Drainage Structures 856
Subsurface Drainage 895
Summary 913
Problems 913
References 915
Additional Reading 916
18 Bituminous Materials 965
Sources of Asphalt 966
Description and Uses of Bituminous Binders 968
Properties of Asphalt Materials 971
Tests for Asphalt Materials 974
Asphalt Mixtures 989
Superpave Systems 1010
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xii Contents
Summary 1037
Problems 1037
References 1040
21 Pavement Management 1177
Problems of Highway Rehabilitation 1177
Methods for Determining Roadway Condition 1180
Pavement Condition Prediction 1194
Pavement Rehabilitation 1202
Pavement Rehabilitation Programming 1203
GIS and Pavement Management 1213
Summary 1214
Problems 1214
References 1216
Appendixes 1219
Index 1245
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Language: English
IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER
By E. W. Hornung
A MASTER SPIRIT
By Harriet Prescott Spofford
MADAME DELPHINE
By George W. Cable
A BOOK OF MARTYRS
By Cornelia Atwood Pratt
TROW DIRECTORY
PRINTING AND BOOK BINDING COMPANY
NEW YORK
NOTE
Of the stories in this volume, “Witherle’s Freedom” and “Serene’s
Religious Experience” were first published in The Century Magazine;
“A Consuming Fire,” “Hardesty’s Cowardice” and “The Honor of a
Gentleman” in Harper’s Weekly; “At the End of the World” in The
Independent. Thanks are due the publishers of these periodicals for
permission to reprint the stories here.
CONTENTS
PAGE
Witherle’s Freedom, 1
Serene’s Religious Experience; an Inland Story, 19
An Instance of Chivalry, 45
A Consuming Fire, 71
An Unearned Reward, 89
Hardesty’s Cowardice, 111
“The Honor of a Gentleman,” 131
Rivals, 153
At the End of the World, 165
WITHERLE’S FREEDOM
His little world was blankly astonished when Witherle dropped out
of it. His disappearance was as his life had been, neat, methodical,
well-arranged; but why did he go at all?
He had lived through thirty-seven years of a discreetly conducted
existence with apparent satisfaction; he had been in the ministry for
fifteen years; he had been married nearly as long; he was in no sort
of difficulty, theological, financial, or marital; he possessed the favor
of his superiors in the church, the confidence of his wife, and he had
recently come into a small fortune bequeathed him by a great-aunt.
Every one regarded him as very “comfortably fixed”—for a minister.
Of all the above-enumerated blessings he had divested himself
methodically, as a man folds up and lays aside worn garments. He
resigned his charge, he transferred his property to his wife, and
wrote her a farewell note in which he said, in a light-hearted way
which she mistook for incoherence, that she would never see him
again. These things done, he dropped out of the sight of men as
completely as a stone fallen into a pond.
His friends speculated and investigated, curiously, eagerly,
fearfully, but to no purpose. What was the motive? Where had he
gone? Had he committed suicide? Was he insane? The elders of the
church employed a detective, and the friends of his wife took up the
search, but Witherle was not found. He had left as little trace
whereby he could be followed as a meteor leaves when it rushes
across the sky.
Presently, of course, interest in the event subsided; the church got
a new minister; Witherle’s wife went back to her own people; the
world appeared to forget. But there was a man of Witherle’s
congregation named Lowndes who still meditated the unsolved
problem at odd moments. He was a practical man of affairs, with the
psychological instinct, and he found the question of why people do
the things that they do perennially interesting. Humanity from any
point of view is a touching spectacle; from a business standpoint it is
infinitely droll. Personally Lowndes was one of the wholesome
natures for whom there are more certainties than uncertainties in life,
and he felt for Witherle the protecting friendliness that a strong man
sometimes has for one less strong. He advised him as to his
investments on week-days, and listened patiently Sunday after
Sunday, as the lesser man expounded the mysteries of creation and
the ways of the Creator, sustained by the reflection that Witherle was
better than his sermons. He did not consider him an interesting man,
but he believed him to be a good one. When Witherle was no longer
at hand, Lowndes counselled and planned for his wife, and
otherwise made himself as useful as the circumstances would
permit. He felt sorry for Witherle’s wife, a nervous woman to whom
had come as sharp an upheaval of life as death itself could have
brought about, without the comfort of the reflection that the Lord had
taken away.
Fate, who sometimes delivers the ball to those who are ready to
play, decreed that, in May, about a year after Witherle’s
disappearance, Lowndes should be summoned from the
Pennsylvania village where he lived to one of the cities of an
adjoining State. His business took him along the dingy river-front of
the town. Crossing a bridge one evening toward sunset, he stopped
idly to note the shifting iridescent tints that converted the river for the
hour into a heavenly water-way between the two purgatorial banks
lined with warehouses and elevators black with the inexpressibly
mussy and depressing blackness of the soot of soft coal. His glance
fell upon a coal-barge being loaded at the nearest wharf. He leaned
over the rail, wondering why the lines of the figure of one of the
workmen looked familiar to him. The man seemed to be shovelling
coal with a peculiar zest. As this is a species of toil not usually
performed for the love of it, his manner naturally attracted attention.
While Lowndes still stood there pondering the problematical
familiarity of his back, the man turned. Lowndes clutched the rail. “By
Jove!” he said, excitedly, for he saw that the features were the
features of Witherle. Their expression was exultant and illuminated
beyond anything ever vouch-safed to that plodding gospeller. Moving
along the bridge to a point just above the barge, he took out his
watch and looked at it. It was nearly six o’clock.
The next fifteen minutes were exciting ones for Lowndes. His mind
was in a tumult. It is no light matter to make one’s self the arbiter of
another man’s destiny; and he knew enough of Witherle to feel sure
that the man’s future was in his hands. He looked down at him
dubiously, his strong hands still clutching the rail tensely. For a
minute he felt that he must move on without making his presence
known, but even as he resolved, the clocks and whistles clamorously
announced the hour.
When the men quitted their work, the man whom Lowndes’s eyes
were following came up the stairs that led to the bridge. As he
passed, Lowndes laid a hand lightly on his shoulder.
“How are you, Witherle?” he said.
The man stared at him blankly a second, recoiled, and his face
turned livid as he shook off the friendly hand. The other men had
passed on, and they were alone on the bridge.
“I’m a free man,” said Witherle, loudly, throwing back his
shoulders. “Before God, I’m a free man for the first time in my life.
What do you want with me?”
“Don’t rave,” said Lowndes, sharply. “I sha’n’t hurt you. You
couldn’t expect me to pass you without speaking, could you?”
“Then you weren’t looking for me?” asked Witherle, abjectly.
“I have business on hand.” Lowndes spoke impatiently, for he did
not enjoy seeing his old friend cower. “I am here for the Diamond Oil
Co. I was crossing the bridge just now, when I saw a man down
there shovelling coal as if he liked it; and I delayed to look, and saw
it was you. So I waited for you. That is all there is of it. You needn’t
stop if you don’t wish.”
Witherle drew a deep breath. “My nerves aren’t what they were,”
he said, apologetically. “It played the mischief with them to—” He left
the sentence hanging in the air.
“If you weren’t going to like the results, you needn’t have gone,”
observed Lowndes, in an impartial tone. “Nobody has been exactly
able to see the reasons for your departure. You left the folks at home
a good deal stirred up.”
“What do they say about me there?”
Lowndes hesitated. “Most of them say you were crazy. Your wife
has gone back to her people.”
“Ah!”
Lowndes looked at the man with a sudden impulse of pity. He was
leaning against the rail, breathing heavily. His face was white
beneath the soot, but in his eyes still flamed that incomprehensible
ecstasy. He was inebriate with the subtle stimulus of some
transcendent thought. But what thought? And what had brought him
here? This creature, with his sensitive mouth, his idealist’s eyes, his
scholar’s hands, black and hardened now but still clearly
recognizable, was at least more out of place among the coal-heavers
than he had been in the pulpit. Lowndes felt mightily upon him the
desire to shepherd this man back to some more sheltered fold. The
highways of existence were not for his feet; not for his lips the “Song
of the Open Road.” He did not resist the desire to say, meditatively:
“You have no children——”
“God in His mercy be praised for that one blessing!” Witherle
muttered. But Lowndes went on as if he did not hear:
“But you might think of your wife.”
“I have thought of her—too much. I thought about everything too
much. I am tired of thinking,” said Witherle. “I wonder if you
understand?”
“Not in the least.”
Witherle looked about him restlessly. “Come where we can talk—
down there on that pile of boards. I think I’d like to talk. It is very
simple when once you understand it.”
He led the way to the opposite end of the bridge, and down an
embankment to a lumber-pile at the water’s edge. Up the river the
May sun had gone down in splendor, leaving the water crimson-
stained. Witherle sat down where he could look along the river-
reaches.
“Hold on a minute, Witherle. Don’t talk to me unless you are sure
you want to.”
“That’s all right. There’s nothing much to tell. I don’t seem to mind
your understanding.”
Witherle was silent a minute.
“It is very simple,” he said again. “This is the way I think about it.
Either you do the things you want to do in this world or else you
don’t. I had never done what I wanted until I left home. I didn’t mean
to hurt anybody by coming away in that style, and I don’t think that I
did. I’d rather not be selfish, but life got so dull. I couldn’t stand it. I
had to have a change. I had to come. The things you have to do you
do. There was a Frenchman once who committed suicide and left a
note that said: ‘Tired of this eternal buttoning and unbuttoning.’ I
know how he felt. I don’t know how other men manage to live.
Perhaps their work means more to them than mine had come to
mean to me. It was just dull, that was all, and I had to come.”
Lowndes stared. Truly it was delightfully simple. “Why, man, you
can’t chuck your responsibilities overboard like that. Your wife——”
“When I was twenty-one,” interrupted Witherle, “I was in love. The
girl married somebody else. Before I met my wife she had cared for
a man who married another woman. You see how it was. We were
going to save the pieces together. As a business arrangement that
sort of thing is all right. I haven’t a word to say against it. She is a
good woman, and we got on as well as most people, only life was
not ecstasy to either of us. Can’t you see us tied together, snaking
our way along through existence as if it were some gray desert, and
we crawling on and on over the sand, always with our faces bent to
it, and nothing showing itself in our way but the white bones of the
men and women who had travelled along there before us—grinning
skulls mostly? Can’t you see it?”
Looking up, he caught an expression in Lowndes’s eyes the
meaning of which he suspected. “Oh, you needn’t be afraid,” he
added, hastily, “that this is insanity. It’s only imagination. That’s the
way I felt. And my work was only another long desert to be toiled
through—with the Sphinx at the end. I wasn’t a successful preacher,
and you know it. I hadn’t any grip on men. I hadn’t any grip on myself
—or God. I couldn’t see any use or any meaning or any joy in it. The
whole thing choked me. I wanted a simpler, more elemental life. I
wanted to go up and down the earth and try new forms of living, new
ways of doing things, new people. Life—that was what I wanted; to
feel the pulse of the world throb under my touch, to be in the stir, to
be doing something. I was always haunted by the conviction that life
was tremendous if only you once got at it. I couldn’t get at it where I
was. I was rotting away. So when that money was left me it came
like a godsend. I knew my wife could live on that, and I didn’t think
she’d miss me much, so I just came off.”
“And you like it?”
The man’s eyes flamed. “Like it? It’s great! It’s the only thing there
is. I’ve been from Maine to California this year. I wintered in a
Michigan lumber-camp—that was hell. I was a boat-hand on the
Columbia last summer—that was heaven. I worked in a coal-mine
two months—a scab workman, you understand. And now I’m at this.
I tell you, it is fine to get rid of cudgelling your brains for ideas that
aren’t there, and of pretending to teach people something you don’t
know, and take to working with your hands nine hours a day and
sleeping like a log all night. I hadn’t slept for months, you know.
These people tell me about themselves. I’m seeing what life is like.
I’m getting down to the foundations. I’ve learned more about
humanity in the last six months than I ever knew in all my life. I
believe I’ve learned more about religion. I’m getting hold of things.
It’s like getting out on the open sea after that desert I was talking
about—don’t you see? And it all tastes so good to me!” He dropped
his head into his hands, exhausted by the flood of words he had
poured rapidly out.
Lowndes hesitated long before he spoke. He was reflecting that
Witherle’s exaltation was pathological—he was drunk with the air of
the open road.
“Poor little devil!” he thought. “One might let alone a man who
finds ecstasy in being a coal-heaver; but it won’t do.”
“Life is big,” he admitted, slowly; “it’s tremendous, if you like; it’s all
you say—but it isn’t for you. Don’t you see it is too late? We’re all of
us under bonds to keep the world’s peace and finish the contracts
we undertake. You’re out of bounds now. You have got to come
back.”
Witherle stared at him blankly. “You say that? After what I’ve told
you? Why, there’s nothing to go back for. And here—there is
everything! What harm am I doing, I’d like to know? Who is hurt?
What claims has that life on me? Confound you!” his wrath rising
fiercely, “how dare you talk like that to me? Why isn’t life for me as
well as for you?”
This Witherle was a man he did not know. Lowndes felt a little
heart-sick, but only the more convinced that he must make his point.
“If you didn’t feel that you were out of bounds, why were you afraid
of me when I came along?”
The thrust told. Witherle was silent. Lowndes went on: “Bread isn’t
as interesting as champagne, I know, but there is more in it, in the
long run. However, that’s neither here nor there—if a man has a right
to his champagne. But you haven’t. You are mistaken about your
wife. She was all broken up. I don’t pretend to say she was
desperately fond of you. I don’t know anything about that. But,
anyhow, she had made for herself a kind of life of which you were
the centre, and it was all the life she had. You had no right to break it
to pieces getting what you wanted. That’s a brutal thing for a man to
do. She looked very miserable, when I saw her. You’ve got to go
back.”
Witherle turned his head from side to side restlessly, as a sick man
turns on the pillow.
“How can I go back?” he cried, keenly protesting. “Don’t you see
it’s impossible? I’ve burned my ships.”
“That’s easy enough. You went off in a fit of double consciousness,
or temporary insanity, or something like that, and I found you down
here. It will be easy enough to reinstate you. I’ll see to that.”
“That would be a lie,” said Witherle, resolutely.
Lowndes stared at him curiously, reflecting upon the
fastidiousness with which men pick and choose their offenses
against righteousness, embracing one joyously and rejecting another
with scorn.
“Yes; so it would. But I have offered to do the lying for you, and
you are off your head, you know.”
“How?” demanded Witherle, sharply.
“Any man is off his head who can’t take life as it comes, the bad
and the good, and bear up under it. Suicide is insanity. You tried to
commit suicide in the cowardliest way, by getting rid of your
responsibilities and saving your worthless breath. Old man, it won’t
do. You say you’ve learned something about religion and humanity—
come back and tell us about it.”
Witherle listened to his sentence in silence. His long lower lip
trembled.
“Anything more?” he demanded.
“That’s all. It won’t do.”
The man dropped his head into his hands and sat absolutely still.
Lowndes watched the river growing grayer and grayer, and listened
to the lapping of the water against the lumber, remembering that one
of the poets had said it was a risky business tampering with souls,
and matter enough to save one’s own. The reflection made him feel
a little faint. What if Witherle had a right to that life in spite of
everything—that life for which he had given all?
Witherle lifted his head at last. “You are sure my wife was broken
up over it?” he demanded, despairingly.
“Sure.”
Witherle cast one longing glance across the darkening river to the
black outlines of the barge. There, ah, even there, the breath of life
was sweet upon his lips, and toil was good, and existence was worth
while.
“I thought no soul in the world had a claim on me. Curse duty! The
life of a rat in a cage!” he cried. “Oh, Lord, I haven’t the head nor the
heart for it!”
The words were bitter, but his voice broke with compliance. He
rose to his feet and stretched out his arms with a fierce gesture, then
dropped them heavily by his side.
“Come on,” he said.
Lowndes, watching him with that curious, heart-sickening
sympathy growing upon him, was aware that he had seen the end of
a soul’s revolt. Rightly or wrongly, Witherle’s freedom was over.