Baltimore's concrete oblivion

Some want the JFX (or at least part of it) gone. What would that actually look like?

The idea of eighty-sixing Baltimore’s Jones Falls Expressway (JFX), the concrete goliath that traces its namesake stream’s path as it bends and swoops into Jonestown from its starting point at the Beltway, isn't as radical or earth-shattering as it may sound. In fact, we can think of it as a Return, so to speak. West Baltimore’s Highway to Nowhere, the segment of I-70 intended to continue west to the highway terminus at Security Boulevard, is mercifully already in the sightlines of local politicians and will be the first to go. There is much to say in regard to that, but for the moment I will outline the history of the JFX and put forward a scenario for its dismantling.

Skepticism and even indignance are quite understandable reactions to a proposal to tear down the JFX—after all, it has succeeded in its function of buffeting cars in and out of downtown at . . . exceptional speeds. It is a part of many peoples’ lives, albeit a dangerous one. But the material, economic, and cultural damage that highways have done to American cities is well documented (look no further than West Baltimore for a prime example), as are the economic opportunities which emerge from removal. A rising tide of urban highway removals across the country (see Boston, Rochester, and Chattanooga as an introduction), an increasing public recognition of the failure of mid-century urban renewal, and a increased availability of federal funds make this an ideal moment to address the varied implications of nixing the JFX.

When someone says they want to nix the JFX, they probably aren’t talking about ripping out the part that runs past the Park School, Poly, the Pepsi sign, or even Penn Station (not yet, at least). While one can and should dream about freeing the whole Jones Falls stream and transforming it into a world-class natural amenity snaking from county to city, we can get to that part later.

The most practicable section of the JFX to remove is from just south of The Bend, to its terminus at President St. The Bend is where drivers heading south, having just driven past the Penn Station parking garage, ideally give their brakes a tap as they round a nearly 90 degree turn—then duck under the Preston, Biddle and Chase bridges just as the road rises onto stilts and Baltimore’s skyline comes into view. The one-lane northward on-ramp at Madison St would lead onto a thinned-down roadway, and JFX drivers heading south would be deposited off the ramp at Eager St. This would open up a corridor of developable land that would stitch downtown and the Mt Vernon areas back together with Penn-Fallsway, Jonestown, and central East Baltimore.

The Bend, in all its absurdity, lays bare that the JFX is far from a rational, well-thought-out piece of Baltimore’s urban fabric. As Colin Campbell wrote in a 2019 Baltimore Sun article, the plan for the road was pushed through in 1955 by the Greater Baltimore Committee, a group of politically connected men with business interests north of the city. The winding river valley that defined the JFX’s route made the road unsafe at typical interstate speeds—but officials, desperate to secure 90% federal funding, designed it to interstate standards anyway. Within an hour of the road’s inauguration in 1961 a car wiped out, and after only six years, officials admitted that the road’s design was already “obsolete.” As of 2019, the JFX’s crash rate was twice that of similar Maryland highways.

Looking back at the JFX while it was under construction can show us how things worked before it was completed. When the JFX opened in ‘61 its southern terminus was at Biddle St (the elevated portion extending south to President St was not completed until the early ‘80s). This aerial photo from 1972 demonstrates what the JFX looked like when it was built down to Eager St, just as it rose onto its platforms. A temporary elevated spur from Fallsway and E Eager St served as the on-ramp, while the existing exit at Eager St onto Guilford Ave served as the off-ramp. The JFX was in its intermediate stages for years at a time, and people managed just fine.

Let’s think about the practical implications of such an undertaking. First of all, much of the area beneath the JFX aqueduct is currently used as a parking lot for city fleet and impounded vehicles. The Penn-Fallsway area to the east, aside from hosting jail and storage facilities, is dominated by surface parking lots. This surface parking (both municipal and private) would be strategically consolidated into a new parking garages in Penn-Fallsway. Baltimore’s beloved Sunday Farmers Market beneath 83 would be shifted slightly north to a dedicated public market area and park under the grand Orleans St Aqueduct. This would retain the under-the-overpass market tradition, and would provide some protection from sun and rain. Fallsway’s southern entrance at President St would be widened slightly, and this street would take on much of the JFX’s traffic as it did for centuries.

The idea of removing the JFX is not brash and impulsive, but rather rational and evidence-based. Professional planners and Baltimore politicians have worked closely on this very project in the past, and the idea has precedent in successful urban highway removal projects around the country and world. With this in mind, we must also remember the sheer amount of funding and political will it would take to pull something like this off—not to mention the inevitable opposition from a public wedded to the status quo of our transportation system. If the JFX is ever removed, it will be decades in the future, perhaps when the downtown aqueduct nears the end of its natural lifespan.

For now, this admittedly fantastical scenario functions best as a thought experiment. It is an excuse to reflect on the swaths of Baltimore’s urban fabric that have been lost to technocratic whims and suburbanization. An exposition of the long-gone blocks of Jonestown would be a logical follow-up. The “wicked seaport” of Baltimore, to borrow H.L. Mencken’s description, is an American gem whose people should not capitulate to the inferiority complex that decades of poor governance has slowly instilled in them. Just as Baltimore City was disfigured in grand, sweeping strokes in the mid-20th century, it can be rebuilt to its former glory with similarly decisive action.