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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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For decades, Highway 17 in West Texas was a road that gave my father equal measures of adventure and anxiety. From desert storms and mountain vistas to long rides beneath the stars, it became a place filled with memories. But one memory stood above all the others—the day his son crashed a motorcycle on the side of Interstate 20 after a ride through the Davis Mountains.

In his story, Dad reflects on the strange relationship we develop with places that have shaped our lives. Places that both give to us and take from us.

In my commentary, I share what was happening behind the scenes on that trip. I had just experienced a major setback in my acting career and was struggling to find my footing. My father took me on that ride to help me get away from it all, but disappointment and frustration followed me into West Texas.

Looking back, what I remember most isn't the accident. It's the unwavering support of my parents throughout every success, every failure, and every unlikely dream I chased. They believed in me long before I had any reason to believe in myself.

Sometimes the roads we remember most aren't the easiest ones to travel, but they often lead us exactly where we need to be.

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Episode 18 – Kebler Pass

In this episode of Being There, I read “Kebler Pass,” written by my father, Gene McCalmont, in 2004.

While riding alone through the mountains of Colorado, Dad spots a squiggly line on a map and decides to follow it. What begins as a scenic detour quickly turns into a test of skill, courage, and determination as he finds himself navigating a narrow mountain trail with a sheer drop-off just inches away.

But beneath the adventure is a larger story about decisions. The roads we choose, the risks we take, and the unexpected experiences that shape who we become.

In my commentary, I reflect on one of the most significant turning points in my father's life. After losing his job, he made the difficult decision to start his own company rather than let circumstances define his future. That decision changed the trajectory of our family and became a reminder that some of life's most important opportunities arrive disguised as setbacks.

Dad often reminded me to embrace both my successes and my failures. Every decision we make, every victory we celebrate, and every mistake we survive becomes part of the person we are today.

Sometimes the road you never planned to travel becomes the one that changes everything.

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In this episode of Being There, I read “Reflections of You,” written by my father, Gene McCalmont, in 2004.

While sitting outside a coffee shop in Fredericksburg, Texas, Dad becomes fascinated by the reflections moving across a plate-glass window. What begins as a simple observation turns into a deeper meditation on identity, perception, and the many versions of ourselves that exist at the same time.

Are we the person we see in the mirror? The person others see? The person we hope to become? Or are we something larger—the sum of all our experiences, relationships, successes, failures, dreams, and memories?

Following the reading, I reflect on a question that has stayed with me: What did my father see when he looked at me? Not the son I saw in the mirror, but the person he knew through his own experiences, hopes, and perceptions.

It's a thoughtful and timeless exploration of friendship, self-awareness, and the ever-changing reflections that shape who we are.