I pulled over on the greenway and stared at the sign, puzzled. Puzzled not by the sign’s message, which was clear. Puzzled by its mere existence.
For years, the Triangle’s greenways consisted of strings of half-mile and mile-long bits of elbow macaroni, scattered about. Signs — signs showing you where you were and where you could go — weren’t a priority on a path that simply went from Point A to Point B. But as those greenways grew and those bits of elbow macaroni joined to form longer and interconnected noodles, the need for direction, for signs, increased. For the past decade or so, the main complaint about local greenways has been the absence of signs.