A Day In the Life of Vancouver in 60 seconds

July 25 was an extraordinary summer's day when Mother Nature out-performed the Fireworks Festival in Vancouver, British Columbia.

Looking toward West Vancouver from the Burrard Bridge.

How My Grandfather Got Around San Francisco

Amazing footage of street traffic on San Francisco's Market Street in 1905. The street heads east toward the Ferry Building, which was left in tact after the '06 quake and fire.

I arrived in San Francisco in the 70s, and often traveled down Market Street in a street car wondering what it may have looked like in my grandfather's day.

Sound track is La Femme D'Argent from Air's Moon Safari album. Special thanks to Pam Shandrick for passing this along.

Stealing Home Again

On a visit to my hometown of Colorado Springs during a typical Indian summer I was stirred by the profound beauty of the park where I grew up. The memories were waiting for me.

The great Ty Cobb stealing home

The glistening yellow leaves wafted in the slow afternoon breezes among cottonwoods. I rode my bike across town to where I once played on similar afternoons when the warm fragrant air was crisp under an autumnal blanket. This was a somewhat reassuring sound. I rode to the park where I had played for endless hours. It was a large place then and today it was small, the space worn away by time. I was giddy at being back on a bike gliding past the memories and soon rode from the entrance past the buildings that housed me during the thunder storms, past the ponds where ducks adorned the placid water and near where my grandfather and I tried to catch turtles and frogs as they sunned on lily pads. Then I rode to the baseball field, now empty like a tomb. I stood at home plate and practiced swinging an invisible 32-ounce bat. Even at my advanced age I could hit Charlie Steele’s fastball today, whether Charlie was young enough to throw was not the point. I had learned to hit his fast ball much later in life, about the same time as I learned not to give my power away to people whom I admired. But at 13 I could do neither. Today, I could hit Junior Jones’curve ball. He was the best pitcher I had ever seen. Perhaps Junior has quit pitching, but I am able to hit the curve ball because life has taught me never to duck from pretense or to be awestruck by style. Only focus on what is in front of you and swing only at what feels good and forget the rest. There were times I had no thoughts at all and everything else was instinctive. Today, I run to first base, probably faster now than when I was younger. Everything was hard to master then. I catch a breath, my heart racing and I steal second without sliding. This time I take a big lead on Charlie Steele, and I invite him to catch me off base like he’d done to me years ago, but I know his move so I scamper back to second before he can make his move. Ghosts are not so fast as you think. I am patient because my friend Gary, who is the Mantle to my Maris, is at bat. He singles and now I am on third base. I remember a night game under the lights. The coach gives me a sign and wants me to steal home, but I am confused. What? With no outs and a good hitter at the plate? Back then I took orders, but now I’ll decide the moment. Coaches, I learned over the decades, were inevitably wrong. My coach wanted me to do what Ty Cobb did. The greatest base stealer of all time could steal second, then third and then home. But back then I did not know I could ignore authority figures and get away with it. In any case I made a poor hook slide into the catcher's shin pad. My leg splintered in two places and the bone stuck out of my skin. The umpire was nearly sick. My parents took me to the hospital where the doctors operated on me. I was left in a cast for six months. That winter I lost my place on the hockey team. No basketball for years. Next fall I could not play football. After crutches I limped everywhere. Later in life I would run the fells of Wales, climb the Himalayas, trek through jungles and climb volcanoes in Central America and play soccer on several continents as well as play rugby far past my due date. But now I am on third base, I crouch, waiting for the pitcher to throw a curve ball, then I leap. The catcher never sees me and I slide, this time my foot reaches the plate with a soft touch while the catcher looks for the ball in the dirt. I am safe. I have scored. I don’t have to steal home ever again.