Skip to main content

Ghost Town Before Christmas

In this episode, Ghost Town Before Christmas . . .

According to the headlines, the world was jammed solid. Freeways locked. Airports bursting. Humanity is on the move in what the news helpfully labeled a Holiday Travel Apocalypse.

So at 9:00 Sunday morning, we rolled out on our bikes expecting chaos.

Instead, we found… Nothing.

The San Luis Rey bike path was empty, as if we’d pedaled through a rip in the fabric of time. The air had that rare late-December clarity—cool, clean, almost polished. Trees along the path dropped gold and amber leaves that skittered across the pavement like small, polite ghosts. The sun wasn’t loud or demanding—just warm enough to make the world feel calm and contained—a private trail of asphalt and light.

By the time we reached Oceanside Harbor, the travel warnings felt almost absurd. While the news promised mayhem, the harbor delivered stillness. The water rippled, reflecting the sun. The Pier stood against a deep sapphire sky brushed with thin, quiet clouds. No crowds. No shouting. Just the soft creak of boats and a town that hadn’t gotten the memo; it was supposed to be busy.

I don’t know where everyone went, but I was grateful for their absence. While the rest of the world was wrestling carry-on bags into overhead bins of destiny, our coastline had gone silent. The roads were so still I could hear my own pulse. For a moment, I wasn’t just cycling—I was curating an empty world.

Of course, the spell eventually broke.

Taking an unusual route home through Carlsbad, I finally found the missing population. They hadn’t vanished; they’d relocated. As I crested the hill near the outlet malls and Costco, the quiet dissolved into a familiar hum of holiday urgency—parking lots packed tight with chrome and brake lights, shoppers orbiting for bargains and spaces.

Just a few miles apart: two entirely different worlds.

While everyone else was hunting for deals, I had already found the only thing worth keeping this season—the quiet, golden center of the storm.

I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, ask questions, enjoy the ride — and Merry Christmas!🎄

Comments

Don Hanley said…
You found more than the quiet - you found PEACE.
Anonymous said…
Merry Christmas!

Most Popular of All Time

The Gopher Problem and the High Powered Solution

Vacationing in Maine this week, just a short drive down the coast from Freeport, it is hard not to think about the outsized impact one frustrated outdoorsman had on the gear we all use today. Bad equipment can ruin a perfectly good day on the water or the trail, but it takes a special kind of vision to turn cold feet into a century-old empire. This is the story of the company we now know as L.L.Bean, but more importantly, it is a masterclass in integrity, learning from failure, and standing behind your work. In 1912, Leon Leonwood Bean faced a persistent problem: returning from expeditions in the Maine woods with cold, wet feet. Instead of complaining, he got creative. He had a local shoemaker stitch waterproof rubber soles onto the flexible leather uppers of a hunting boot. He called it the Maine Hunting Shoe and mailed a flyer promising perfect satisfaction. Then reality arrived. Ninety of his first 100 pairs failed when the rubber separated from the leather. Not an effective product...

Stamps and Snow

In this episode, Stamps and Snow . . .   You don’t usually walk into the local Post Office expecting a time warp . . . but here we are. All we wanted were stamps for this year's Christmas cards— yes, the old-fashioned paper ones that require licking, sticking, and hoping the Postal Service is feeling ambitious this week. But holiday errands have a talent for slowing you down, almost like the universe whispering, “Relax. You’re not getting out of this line any faster anyway.” So we waited. And while we waited, we talked (Are you surprised?). Because the Post Office is one of the few places where people still look up from their phones long enough to talk . . . Maybe it's because they're holding packages. It’s the modern town square: part civic duty, part free entertainment, part sociology experiment. The discussion began with holiday specials streaming on Netflix, Paramount+, and other services during this time of year. One gentleman who has lived in Vista since 1958 told us,...

On Becoming Real

Some things get better with wear: old shoes, old friendships, and old books. Especially old books. A new volume arrives with crisp corners and a spine that hasn’t yet learned to bend. An old one has been somewhere. It has traveled through time in the hands of people who may no longer be around to tell us what they found inside. The copy of The Velveteen Rabbit (first published in 1922) on my desk is one of those books. My friend Don Hanley gave it to me. This late-1950s Doubleday edition features William Nicholson’s original illustrations and cream paper boards softened by age. Worn corners, a split spine, and colored tabs mark passages worth revisiting. Don didn’t hand me a keepsake. He gave me homework. When we talked about the book recently, he pointed me straight to the nursery conversation between a young rabbit and an old Skin Horse. The rabbit had noticed the mechanical toys around him—the ones with internal gears, bright paint, and stick-out handles that seem terribly impressiv...

A Dog, a Beer . . . and the Ghost of 1912

Whenever you step into an American cathedral of our National Pastime built before modern ergonomics, municipal zoning, or crowd-flow dynamics, an unspoken understanding forms, creating a welcoming, timeless atmosphere. You trade legroom, sensible corridors, and personal space for the privilege of communing with ghosts. Last week, Lori and I made our pilgrimage to Fenway Park to watch our Chicago Cubs take on the Boston Red Sox (a taut 0–2 contest that felt spiritually tied to their 1918 World Series meeting). Staying just across the Charles River at the Courtyard Marriott in Cambridge gave us one immeasurable tactical advantage: we walked. While the automotive gridlock around Kenmore Square took on the character of the Siege of Yorktown—horns echoing across the asphalt like musket fire—we simply strolled across the Boston University Bridge, enjoying the river breeze and feeling smugly superior to everyone trapped behind a steering wheel. Fenway, built in the spring of 1912, holds rough...