“Being There: Stories from the Road Where We Keep the Rubber Side Down”

Can we disagree and still remember that we're all on the same team?

In this episode of Being There, I read my father's original, unedited version of Silent Night

Dad begins in December 1967. He's a college student working nights at Camp Gary outside San Marcos, riding a Triumph Bonneville because it's the only transportation he has, struggling with his grades, and knowing that school may be the only thing standing between him and Vietnam.

Then the snow begins to fall.

For a few moments, the noise and fear disappear. Nearly 40 years later, another snowfall takes him back to that night. This time it's 2006, the television is reporting another 200 deaths in Baghdad, and America is fighting another war. Dad finds himself asking whether we ever really learn from our mistakes—and whether anyone has the clarity, truth and courage to lead us out of chaos. Pasted text

Reading his words again made me think about something called the Overview Effect—the profound change in perspective described by people who have looked back at Earth from space. From that distance, our borders disappear. Our political divisions disappear. The atmosphere protecting every one of us suddenly looks incredibly thin and fragile.

That brought me to William Shatner, one of Dad's favorite actors, and his emotional reaction after finally traveling to space. I couldn't help wondering what Dad and I would have talked about after hearing Shatner describe what he saw.

Dad and I didn't always agree politically. In fact, we could debate pretty feverishly. But we could talk. We could disagree. And at the end of the conversation, we still loved each other.

I'm not sure we're very good at that anymore.

Now that I'm older and thinking less about my own future and more about the world my children will inherit, I find myself looking at these questions differently.

Maybe we're not as far apart as we think.

Maybe we're simply one crew traveling together on a very small and fragile planet.

And if we want this place to live long and prosper, regardless of our politics, we're eventually going to have to figure out how to work together.

🎧 Being There — Episode 29: Silent Night

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In this episode of Being There, I read my father's story "They All Went to Mexico."

Dad takes us along on his first motorcycle trip deep into Mexico—a 2,800-mile, 16-day adventure through mountain passes, colonial cities, unfamiliar roads, rain, traffic, and a country that seemed to offer something completely new around every corner.

But some of his strongest memories weren't about the roads at all. They were about the people. An unexpected invitation from local motorcyclists in Monclova turned into an evening of cold cerveza, new friendships, and the realization that the language of motorcycles didn't require much translation.

As Dad wrote, "When you ride, you are never too far from friends—in any country."

In my commentary, I look back at the Mexico my father experienced and wonder how much has changed. There was a freedom to trips like this—crossing the border on a motorcycle and simply exploring—that feels like it came from another time.

Is that kind of motorcycle adventure through Mexico still possible today? Is it still safe? Or has the world changed enough that some of these journeys now live mostly in the stories of those who were fortunate enough to experience them?

Either way, Dad's story is a reminder of what can happen when you're willing to leave your comfort zone and see what's waiting on the other side.

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Episode 27 – The Bobber

In this episode of Being There, I read my father's story "The Bobber," a look back at the summer of 1966 when he and a friend decided to build the ultimate motorcycle.

They were college kids without much money—and apparently without much concern that they didn't really know what they were doing. They started with the remains of a 1947 Triumph Speed Twin and a vision. What followed was an education in engines, paint, chrome, broken parts, empty wallets, cold beer, good friends, and the occasional lesson learned the hard way.

Eventually, they built their Bobber. It ran. It looked great. And then, in one spectacular moment, it quite literally started throwing pieces of itself down the street.

But that's really not what the story is about.

In my commentary, I talk about something I know I inherited from my dad: the love of a good project. I love figuring things out, building something, making mistakes, and especially doing it alongside friends.

Because when you look back, the finished project isn't always what you remember. You remember the people who were there, the problems you solved, the things that went wrong, and the stories you still laugh about years later.

Maybe that's the real journey a man was meant to take.

Not simply finishing something—but building it together.

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In this episode of Being There, I read "Relativity," one of my father's award-winning stories.

Written by Gene McCalmont in 2006 for Ride Texas Magazine, "Relativity" went on to earn an award from the Houston Press Club in 2007.

Stranded in the Chihuahuan Desert with a flat tire and daylight slowly disappearing, Dad finds himself with something we rarely seem to have enough of—time.

Having recently turned 60 and facing serious physical challenges that once threatened to end his motorcycle riding altogether, he reflects on Einstein, aging, the years already behind him, and the choices we make with whatever time remains.

What begins with a broken motorcycle becomes an affirmation of life and a deceptively simple question:

How do I want to live my life?

For my father, the answer was clear. Keep moving. Keep experiencing. Keep living.

"Everything is relative. I had made my choice."

An award-winning story about time, mortality, and choosing to live the life we have.

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Twenty-five episodes of Being There.

For this milestone episode, I read my father's story "West of Sanderson," written about the beginning of his first motorcycle trip to West Texas in 1967.

Three young guys, old motorcycles, very little money, and absolutely no idea what was waiting for them down the road. A stop at a small-town bar, a little pool hustling, a narrow escape, freezing temperatures, and miles of dark West Texas highway somehow added up to something my father would remember and write about decades later.

In my commentary, I reflect on something these stories continue to remind me: at the end of the day, we are the sum of our experiences.

The trips we take. The mistakes we make. The people we meet. The adventures we share with friends and family. Those moments eventually become our stories, and those stories become part of who we are.

So maybe the next time someone asks what you want for your birthday, Christmas, or any special occasion, don't ask for another thing.

Ask for time.

Time with the people you care about. Time to go somewhere. Time to do something you've never done before.

Because someday that experience may become one of the stories you treasure most.

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In this episode of Being There, I read my father's story, "The Shop."

On the surface, it's about vintage motorcycles, British iron, and the unforgettable characters who kept those old machines alive. But beneath the grease, oil, and worn concrete floors is something much deeper—a tribute to the places that shape us and the people who make them unforgettable.

For my father, the motorcycle shop wasn't just a place to fix a bike. It was where stories were shared, friendships were built, and generations passed along their knowledge, humor, and passion. It was a place where history wasn't displayed—it was alive.

In my commentary, I reflect on visiting Big D Triumph with my dad over the years. Shops like that are becoming increasingly rare. They're places filled with endless possibilities, remarkable people, and a craftsmanship that feels like a lost art. Sometimes the best part of a shop isn't what's on the shelves—it's the conversations that happen between them.

If you've ever had a favorite place where you simply loved to spend time, I'd love to hear about it in the comments.

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What begins as one of the worst riding days imaginable—hours of rain, freezing temperatures, snow at over 10,000 feet, and complete misery—slowly transforms into something entirely different. Somewhere along the ride, my father realizes they aren't simply enduring bad weather. They're living an adventure they'll talk about for years to come.

By day's end, one of his riding companions sums it up perfectly:

"I'm gonna remember this for a long time."

In my commentary, I relive my first ride through a torrential downpour. Along the way, I had an accident, but I got back on the bike and made it home. By the time I had taken off all the wet clothes, I realized I hadn't just endured a miserable day—I had lived an adventure I'll remember for the rest of my life.

The best stories aren't always born from perfect days. Sometimes they're created by the moments that challenge us the most—and years later, become the experiences we treasure most.

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Written in 2005, this Christmas reflection earned Gene McCalmont and Ride Texas Magazine their first Katie Awardfrom the Dallas Press Club—one of the highest honors in Texas journalism.

On the surface, it's a story about a motorcycle ride home on a cold December evening. Along the way, a warm cup of coffee shared with a stranger, thoughts of family, and the quiet beauty of a winter night become something much deeper. By the time my father reaches home, North Texas is experiencing its first White Christmas since 1926, creating the perfect ending to a story about generosity, gratitude, and the people waiting for us at the end of the road.

In my commentary, I talk about what this award meant to my dad. He was never someone who chased recognition, but this honor validated something he deeply cared about—that he wasn't simply writing motorcycle stories. He was telling stories about people, about life, and about the moments that connect us all.

Sometimes the greatest gift isn't the award itself. It's knowing your work touched enough people to earn it.

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While resting on a bench in Goliad, Texas, a chance encounter with a young woman stirs memories of another young woman from long ago—Angelina, a spirited cowgirl from Cuero.

Through humor, poetry, and reflection, My father reminds us that some people never truly leave us. They become part of who we are, woven into our memories and carried with us long after the moment has passed.

In my commentary, I reflect on a simple truth my father seemed to understand so well: a life well lived is a life rich with experiences. Every place we've traveled, every person we've loved, every success, every disappointment, and every adventure becomes part of us. In the end, we are the sum of those experiences.

Sometimes it's not the destination we remember most—it's the people we met along the way.

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In this episode of Being There, I read "Hunter's Moon," written by my father, Gene McCalmont, in 2005.

While camping alone at Enchanted Rock in the Texas Hill Country, my father finds himself caught between reality and imagination. What begins as a peaceful evening beneath a brilliant Hunter's Moon slowly transforms into an unforgettable night filled with mysterious figures, whispered voices, ghostly campfires, and an unsettling feeling that he isn't alone.

Was it simply a dream? Or was there something about that ancient place that defied explanation?

In my commentary, I talk about something that always fascinated me about this story. My father was a lifelong student of science and loved understanding how the world worked. So why would he write so convincingly about ghosts and spirits?

I explore the science behind the twilight state between sleep and wakefulness—a fascinating phenomenon where dreams and reality can briefly overlap—and why experiences during that state can feel absolutely real.

Whether you believe in ghosts or believe there's always a scientific explanation, Hunter's Moon reminds us that wonder and mystery still have a place in our lives.

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