Why transport planning needs to hear the voices we’ve been missing

ONE OF the first lessons in transport planning is that transport is a derived demand. But we often forget what that really means. Strip it back, and behind every journey, aside from some freight movements, are people. Real people. And people, let’s face it, are messy. We’re inconsistent, contradictory, and not always logical. We want convenience and sustainability, but not if it means walking in the rain. We crave freedom, but resist change. We don’t always do what we’re advised, even when it’s clearly in our best interest, or the planet’s.

Despite this, much of our work in transport planning still assumes a tidy, rational world. For all the talk of innovation, many of our models and assessments rest on a surprisingly outdated belief: that people make decisions by carefully weighing their options—time, cost, convenience—and selecting the optimal choice. It’s clean, predictable, and easy to model. But it’s also far from reality.

This assumption has deep roots in mid-20th century economic theory and is baked into the core of transport modelling. Tools like the four-stage model and discrete choice models depend on people behaving in consistent, logical ways. These methods have helped us deliver major infrastructure, but they only tell part of the story.

In truth, travel decisions don’t happen on spreadsheets. They’re shaped by habit, social norms, incomplete information, emotional responses, and the quirks of daily life. Someone might choose a longer route because it feels safer, or stick with a mode they know, even if better options exist. Yet our appraisal systems often gloss over this complexity in favour of a rationality that doesn’t hold up in the real world.

So, my pitch in this contribution is that we have to recognise that reality at the core of our work and strive to reflect it in what we propose.

Unfortunately, in our professional lives (which somehow mysteriously don’t dovetail with our personal ones), we have a habit of ignoring those awkward facts about the nature of the people we are ultimately working for. We conveniently turn them into ‘passengers’, ‘loadings’, ‘PCU volumes’, and other neat abstractions. But how many transport strategies truly start with the who rather than the what?

Please don’t take the criticism too personally. We’re not alone in this. De-humanising and de-personalising people is a shared tendency across many sectors. Despite what they say in their marketing speak, banks, retailers, government departments, and plenty of others are just as guilty, perhaps more so. They create simplified, ‘cut-out-and-keep’ versions of their ‘customers’ and convince themselves they’re meeting real needs.

If we want to build transport systems that truly serve people, we must let go of the myth of the perfectly rational traveller. Real choices aren’t made by weighing cost, time, and convenience in neat equations—they’re shaped by habits, emotions, perceptions, and social context. That means embracing behavioural insights, listening more carefully to lived experiences, and challenging the tidy assumptions baked into our models. At its core, transport planning is about human behaviour. It’s time we started planning like we actually understand that.

Every now and then, we get a stark reminder of just how complex and human those behaviours are. And when we do, we should pay attention.

I’m not referring here to recent documentary series like Adolescence, which jolted some politicians into recognising the deep social issues already well-known to those with connections to the education sector. The moment that hit me came from somewhere much more personal.

I grew up in a comprehensive school where cars mattered. They gave you status and, in my case, some welcomed protection from a culture of casual, everyday bullying. In the 1980s, much of my teenage life was spent in the garage with my dad, stripping down and tuning old cars into noisy, low-suspension head-turners with straight-cut gears and big bore exhausts. For us, car culture wasn’t just a hobby. It was pride. It was connection. It was identity.

That early, visceral experience of how transport entwines with who we are is what eventually led me into post-graduate research in the early ’90s—trying to unravel the behavioural complexities behind how people travel, and how we might shape more sustainable choices without disregarding the values that underpin them.

When Joel Budd set out to write his recent book Underdogs, now a BBC Radio 4 series, exploring the lives of Britain’s white working-class communities, he wasn’t just documenting overlooked voices. He was dismantling a myth. Far from the lazy stereotypes of resentment and resistance, Budd’s nuanced portrait reveals resilience, diversity, and quiet adaptation in the face of profound societal change for what it is estimated make up about 35% of the population of England and Wales.

For those of us involved in shaping transport policy (and more importantly, delivering transport, mobility, and accessibility on the ground) Underdogs offers something rare: a compelling cultural map for navigating the political and practical complexities of developing solutions that genuinely serve people. It challenges us to look beyond metrics and modal share targets, and instead ask: who is being heard, who is being served, and who is being left behind?

This isn’t just about understanding the specific communities Joel Budd explored. It should be a core principle of any transport study, plan or project: to take seriously the lived realities of all those affected. Too often, we retreat into abstract language: “good for the economy,” “good for the planet,” “transformational intervention” but without meaningfully engaging with the everyday concerns of the people whose lives will be most impacted.

Sometimes, the standard templates we apply, refined and validated in our professional circles, simply don’t fit. A scheme designed to “improve transport” might tick all the technical boxes but miss the mark for a community that values personal transport over shared options. They might need better access to cars, through ownership, car clubs, or taxis, rather than more cycling infrastructure or a bus service they don’t trust. For those whose livelihoods depend on a white van, or who take pride in their car, the ability to park right outside their home may feel far more important than a neatly designed but distant designated parking area.

Planning needs to be rooted in the places and people it’s meant to serve—not just in the policies it aims to deliver.

We are very good at conceptualising urban and metropolitan lifestyles and transport systems, and inter-urban and regional highway networks, but what do we really know about the best approaches for the substantial numbers of smaller towns and suburban areas? This is where, as Budd discovered, listening to local stories is a fundamental first requirement

In this regard, Budd paints three distinct portraits of white working-class Britain: the “heartlands” (like Rhymney in South Wales), the “colonies” (such as overspill towns like Thetford in Norfolk), and the urban “enclaves” (Wythenshawe in Manchester, a huge council housing area, being a prime example). Each tells a different story, shaped by migration, industry, policy, and geography. And each presents distinct transport needs.

Transport planners are often drawn to uniform solutions by “fixing” bus patronage, smartening up town centres and neighbourhoods, or incentivising modal shift. But Budd’s storytelling urges a different approach: one rooted in the granular specifics of place. The idea that car culture in Thetford may reflect pride and autonomy rather than just convenience, or that unreliable trains in West Yorkshire sever emotional as well as economic lifelines, should prompt a more empathetic transport planning philosophy.

One of the most striking takeaways from Underdogs is that while white working-class people are often portrayed as anti-change or anti-progress, what they really want is respect. That includes respect for their ways of life, including forms of mobility that are often politically unfashionable.

In Rhymney, where public transport is often inadequate, car ownership is less about status and more about survival. Treating car use purely as a climate problem risks alienating people whose transport choices are constrained by geography, decades of underinvestment and fine-grained patterns of family life.

This doesn’t mean abandoning sustainability goals, but it does demand better contextual thinking and suitable storytelling. Policies aimed at decarbonising transport must speak to fairness and dignity, not just drum out the language of carbon reduction. The best solutions to connect places and people aren’t only greener but more just.

Transport is never just about movement. As Budd notes, it’s about presence and absence, about who gets new infrastructure and who gets pothole repairs. In many working-class communities, the state is most visible in the quality of the roads, the bus stop shelter, or the lack thereof.

Investment in transport infrastructure is therefore deeply symbolic. A resurfaced road, a reliable bus service, secure bike parking, warm waiting room at a rural station, these things signify value and care. Conversely, their absence communicates neglect and disregard.

Massive multi-year grand ‘transformational’ projects make a political statement and are popular with the international corporate consultancies. But they invite trouble if its hits your area, by offering you very little in return for the years of disruption and providing stark contrast to the local neglect. A high-speed train flashing past without a stop, or a strategic new highway scheme like the Lower Thames Crossing can say that someone else is important, and you are not, creating our equivalent of the US ‘flyover states’.

As I’ve already suggested, this isn’t just about the particular communities explored in Underdogs. It’s a wider plea for more sensitivity, more respect, and more attention to the full spectrum of characteristics that define people and places. We need to be far more thoughtful in how we conceive and deliver ‘transport solutions’, ensuring they are shaped with communities rather than simply imposed on them.

Joel Budd’s central message is a call for a “shrewder analysis” of the white working class. But that phrase, shrewder analysis, could serve as a guiding principle for how we approach transport planning as a whole. We need to go beyond surface-level assumptions and standardised approaches and engage more deeply with the social and spatial realities people face.

Yet in practice, many highway authorities are locked into long-term framework contracts with large consultancies, promised “best value” in return. These multinational firms—often investing heavily in AI and digital automation—lean on standardised planning templates to drive efficiency and maximise profit. The result is a kind of production-line planning that leaves little room to meaningfully consider the complex interplay of class, place, identity, and access.

Too often, strategies fall back on simplistic binaries: drivers versus cyclists, individual versus collective transport. Rarely do we stop to ask how many local transport strategies actually get delivered—and what that gap between aspiration and reality reveals.

Social equity in transport isn’t just a question of bus frequencies or fare structures. It’s about who gets asked, who gets heard, and who gets served. It’s about designing solutions that local people can understand, influence, and ultimately own. That might mean offering tailored interventions—supporting those ready to “go green” while also accommodating those who remain unconvinced or constrained by their circumstances. One size will not fit all.

If the new government’s ambitions to “fix potholes and fund buses” are to be more than just electoral slogans, they must be grounded in a cultural as well as economic understanding, more sensitive to the context of where people live, how they move, and what matters to them. Underdogs offers an unexpected but essential guidebook for anyone serious about that journey.

All the signs are, that because of the failure to hear real voices, our politics in the next few years will fracture even further into three, four, or even more entrenched camps. New thinking on transport could be a helpful way to avoid the worst of that division or at least prepare us for how we can best cope when that challenge eventually arrives.

The book referred to by Colin Black, Underdogs by Joel Budd, is published on 17th April by Picador, RRP £20 hardback.
ISBN 9781035015122
It has also been serialised on BBC Radio Four,
and is available on BBC Sounds

Colin Black is a transport strategist with over 30 years’ experience shaping infrastructure policy and delivery across the UK and internationally in public and private sector roles. A specialist in transport policy, behavioural change, sustainability, and inclusive, place-based planning, Black says he is passionate about inspiring both current and future transport planners to challenge conventional thinking and embrace fresh, people-centred approaches. He is now a Director at Mayer Brown, an independent consultancy specialising in transport planning and the design and delivery of infrastructure that supports thriving, liveable places.

This article was first published in LTT magazine, LTT913, 16 April 2025.