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.

In this episode of Being There, I read “A Fallen Soldier,” written by my father, Gene McCalmont, on April 30, 2004.

As the Iraq War dominated the headlines, Dad found himself reflecting on another generation of young Americans who answered their country's call to serve. While restoring a 1967 Triumph Bonneville once owned by a young soldier who never returned home, he wrestled with questions of duty, sacrifice, responsibility, and the human cost of war.

At the heart of the story is Lance Corporal Aaron C. Austin of Sunray, Texas, a 21-year-old Marine killed in Iraq just days before the essay was written. Though Dad never knew him personally, his loss served as a powerful reminder that every casualty is someone's son, someone's friend, someone's future.

Following the reading, I revisit who Aaron Austin was and reflect on a different chapter of this story—the Triumph Bonneville itself. For years, I held onto the motorcycle because it had become part of Dad's story and part of mine. Eventually, I realized I was waiting for him to come back and help me finish what he started. Instead, I chose to pass the bike on to a family who lovingly restored it and returned it to the road, allowing its story to continue.

This episode is about memory, service, loss, and the things we eventually learn to let go.

In this episode of Being There, I read “What Do You Think About This?”, written by my father, Gene McCalmont, in 2004.

Set in the old rail yard of Chama, New Mexico, the story follows a brief but unforgettable conversation between the author and an aging railroad worker named Eloy. As steam engines roll into the station and tourists gather with cameras, Eloy reflects on work, age, usefulness, and the changing world around him.

What unfolds is more than a story about railroads. It’s about identity — and the realization that a person’s value cannot be measured only by what they do for a living.

Quiet, thoughtful, and deeply human, this is one of the more reflective episodes of Being There.

🎧 Listen now on Buzzsprout or wherever you get your podcasts.

This week on Being There, I read “Tres Cervezas,” a story written by my father, about a motorcycle trip into Big Bend country in 1967.

Three young riders. Old motorcycles. No money. No real plan.

What starts as a rough ride through West Texas turns into an unforgettable night in Boquillas, Mexico—complete with tacos, tequila, cold Carta Blancas, and the kind of unexpected friendships that seem to belong to another era.

But underneath the humor and adventure is something deeper: a reflection on how much the world has changed, and how certain memories remain frozen in time.

It’s funny, honest, nostalgic, and very human.

🎧 Listen now on Buzzsprout and all major podcast platforms.

Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out into the midday sun, but it is here that one often finds that moment of truth when he is reminded of his own mortality and the limits of time. It is how one chooses to move forward that makes all the difference!

In this episode of Being There, I read “Jalapeño Jelly,” a deeply reflective piece written by my father, Gene McCalmont, during a particularly difficult season in 2003.

Set against a cold motorcycle ride through East Texas, this story weaves together moments of loss, grief, family, and quiet resilience. It moves through the passing of loved ones, unexpected tragedy, and the emotional weight of a year that tested everything—while still holding onto glimpses of joy.

What emerges is a simple but lasting perspective: life is a balance. The sweetness and the heat. The joy and the pain. Much like the taste of jalapeño jelly itself.

This is one of his more personal writings—and one that continues to resonate in a very real way.

If you’ve ever gone through a season where everything seemed heavy, but still found small moments that carried you forward, this one will likely stay with you.

A moment’s inattention is all it takes to ruin a perfectly good day. No matter how much he knows about riding, the author admits to forgetting the basics from time to time.

My Everything was written in March of 2003 as a story to commemorate the author’s 35th wedding anniversary. It was inspired by a chance encounter with a redheaded beauty at Coopers in Llano, Texas, on a ride with his long-time friend, Jerry.

In the 60s, life was never certain. The Vietnam War, motorcycles, and living life fast dominated everything. The author remembers how reality appeared in his mailbox one summer’s day in 1968.

Title: My First
 Author: Gene McCalmont

The first motorcycle the author ever rode, at least for more than a block, was in 1966. Back then, there were no riding lessons other than what you gave yourself. Motorcycles were still somewhat rare, though they were gaining popularity, especially among the young. That ride was not his most accomplished, although it was the start of a lifelong journey that defines him even to this day. 

Title: Winter’s Morose

Author: Gene McCalmont

In the theater of the mind, the author relives past adventures and envisions the day when he will again ride the grandeur of the Big Bend.

Sometimes, the ride is just an excuse to hangout with friends. In this story, the author explores the nature of a long-standing friendship and the unspoken words between two men who have lived many shared experiences.

A familiar road.
A familiar Ducati.
A stranger on a bench who didn’t feel like a stranger at all.

“Familiar Places” is about how motorcycles open doors to connection — and how sometimes the ride reminds you exactly where you belong.

You’re never too old.
Too married.
Or too “mature” to make a fool of yourself.

A Hill Country stop, a bag of ice, and a moment of questionable judgment…

“A Young Beauty” is live now.

This one proves the road teaches humility in unexpected ways.

In 1993, my dad and I rode to West Texas on a motorcycle trip that changed more than we realized.

That night at McDonald Observatory, he looked through a telescope and saw the light of a hundred billion stars.

It opened a universe for him.

“It’s Full of Stars” is live now — and this one means a lot, because I was there.

🎙 New episode of Being There.

A winter ride through the Texas Hill Country.
An unexpected run with a young deer.

For two miles, youth and experience moved side by side on an empty road.

“Come Run with Me”— one of my father’s most reflective pieces, written in 2000.

Sometimes the road gives you more than miles.
Sometimes it gives you perspective.

Originally written by Gene McCalmont and first published in 1996, Turning 50 is a high-octane reflection on what it means to cross a life milestone without surrendering the passion that got you there.

Later translated into four languages and published in multiple European motorsports magazines before appearing in TexMoto Magazine (May/June 2000), this story captures a single day at the track — 85 miles, 1.2 at a time — aboard a bright red Ducati 900 SS SP.

What begins as a birthday ride becomes something more.

In this episode of Being There: Stories from the Road Where We Keep the Rubber Side Down, I read my father’s original words as he wrote them. Afterward, I share a personal reflection on what this story means to me now — eleven years after his passing — and what turning milestones really looks like from the other side of time.

For the next 85 miles, life was simple.
Sometimes that’s the whole point.

Ride safe. Be present.
And keep the rubber side down.