The Branchman
The Branchman didn’t ask for this mission—he was forged by it. A product of his environment, yes, but more importantly, a response to the ever-mounting chaos disguised as recreation on our beloved Pinellas Trail. When others shake their heads and mutter, “Someone should do something,” The Branchman tightens his laces, grabs his gear (a.k.a.: a palm frond), and becomes that someone.
For over two decades, The Branchman has pounded the pavement—logging 30+ miles a week—serving as both trail-blazer and reluctant sentinel. Along the way, he’s chatted with joggers, walkers, amblers, and the occasional confused rollerblader. The unanimous sentiment? Cyclists, though lovely people off-trail, tend to turn into aerodynamic missiles on two wheels. The only consistent response from leadership has been to greenlight increasingly speedy, motorized contraptions—think Mad Max, but with bike bells.
Then came The Incident.
On November 3rd, 2023, as The Branchman left the bridge at Hammock Park, he was nearly vaporized by a motorized cyclist hurtling past at warp speed. The sonic boom left him airborne—and not in the good, gazelle-like way. Moments later, he was in the dirt, watching the speed demon fade into the distance like a rogue speeder on Tatooine. The memento from this unexpected flight? A torn meniscus, and six months of physical therapy.
Fast forward to June 2024: The Branchman is reborn. Well, kind of. “Doctor, is this injury degenerative?” he asked. “No,” the doc replied. “But it will definitely hurt. You can run if you can endure the pain.” Encouraged by that half-hopeful, half-sadistic answer, he laced up and hit the trail again.
The Branchman
But the danger hadn't changed.
From Curlew Rd to Union Street and a circuitous path around City Hall, it was business as usual: cyclists swerving too close, playing high-speed roulette with pedestrians, steering into empty spaces because they can. The Branchman, ever the curious scientist of sidewalk sociology, noticed something intriguing. When trailing behind a Joy Rides rickshaw, cyclists actually followed the rules: they waited for traffic to clear and passed the rickshaw with the holy 24 inches of clearance. Why? Because there was no room to cheat, there was no open space to steer into.
A hypothesis formed: Could the mere removal of "space" force cyclists to do the right thing?
And so, a legend was born.
At the southern base of the Hammock Park bridge, The Branchman retrieved a dry, feather-light palm frond—Florida’s most underutilized tactical safety device—and dragged it gently behind him as he ran. Since then? Zero collisions. Zero close calls. Zero somersaults into shrubbery. Zero unpleasant encounters of any kind.
The palm frond, absurd as it may seem, has become a talisman of peace and perimeter. Cyclists, seeing the leafy tail trailing behind him, instinctively assess approaching traffic, wait for it to pass then give him the berth he—and every pedestrian—deserves. It is part barrier, part conversation starter, and 100% effective.
Public response?
Cyclists:
“Taking your foliage for a walk?”
“That’s the weirdest dog I’ve ever seen.”
“Thanks for sweeping the trail, friend.”
“Covering your tracks, huh?”
“Seriously though—thank you.”
Pedestrians:
“Why do you carry the branch?”
“Why do you carry the branch?”
“No, really… why do you carry the branch?”
“Hey… is it Palm Sunday?”
“Thank you for carrying the branch.”
Thus, The Branchman has unwittingly become an ambassador of safety, a trail-side prophet wielding a frond instead of a staff. He dreams of a trail where respect, not reckless speed, rules the path. Where a simple shift—like dragging a palm frond—can make all the difference.
Because sometimes, to change the world, all you need is a good pair of shoes… and a palm branch.
Contact The Branchman at: branchmandunedin@gmail.com
