“Being There: Stories from the Road Where We Keep the Rubber Side Down”
There’s a difference between passing through… and truly being there.
Being There is a collection of true motorcycle journeys written by my father — stories of open highways, small towns, long miles, unexpected detours, and the kind of moments you only find when you slow down enough to notice them.
My father passed away many years ago.
But through these writings, his voice still rides.
In each episode, I read one of his stories from the road — just as he wrote it — and then I share a personal reflection at the end. What it means to me now. What I hear differently as a son. What time and miles have taught me since he first put those words on paper.
These aren’t just ride logs.
They’re lessons in presence. In freedom. In risk. In faith. In keeping the rubber side down — on the bike and in life.
Ride safe. Be present.
And keep the rubber side down.
“Being There: Stories from the Road Where We Keep the Rubber Side Down”
Winter’s Morose
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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.
Welcome to the Being There Podcast. Stories from the Road, where we keep the rubber side down. These are stories written by my father, Gene McAlmott. Commentary by his son, me, John McCalmott. On this episode of Being There, author Gene McCalmott writes about Winters Morose. Published in Ride Texas magazine. In the theater of the mind, the author reveals past adventures and envisions the day when he will write again the grandeur of the big band. Narrated by his son, me, John McElmott. This is Winter's Morose. The dull light of yet another overcast and cold winter's day fell through the open window like a damp blanket. I felt like I was living about one second behind everyone else. A bit out of step, but still on the same planet. The mournful wail of a diesel locomotive was the only sound coming through. Even the birds were huddled up somewhere out of the weather. I longed to be out on the open road, held in the warm embrace of a dry desert morning. I went downstairs to make sure the battery charger was still working. I lifted the cover off the bike and set it aside. Then ran my fingers across the smooth, curved surface of the tank, and down around the flowing lines of the saddle. I couldn't resist the urge to climb aboard. My hands fell naturally across the controls. The muscles in my right forearm contracted ever so slightly. In my mind, I saw Highway 118 to the big bend from Alpine open up before me. If I couldn't be there in reality, well, I could be there in my mind. I felt the loose sand slide away from my boots as I walked through the underbrush along the banks of the Rio Grande, towards Santa Elena Canyon. The sharply blue sky held the morning sun at my back, its penetrating heat cooking my already sunburned neck. The canyon walls rose high on my left and on my right. The river struggled out of this magnificent canyon, as if it were held back by some imaginary water magnet, not quite willing to let it continue its journey. I found the trailhead leading up the north cliff face and I began my upward climb into the canyon. I leaned the bike to the right and turned onto the park road leading up to the high alpine forest of the Chisos basin. I could feel the air turning cooler as I traveled onward climbing away from the Chihuahuan desert floor. Desert flora grudgingly gave way to Texas Madura and alligator juniper. Low growing grasses replaced sandy washes. Mexican pinyon pine struggled free from the rocky soil. Purples and reds rose out of once dull grey brown rock. I was traveling through changing topography and ecology in sharp contrast to the surrounding desert. Who could imagine an island forest in this sun drenched place? A sharp twist in the road slowed my pace, switching back on itself before bending sharply through Panther Pass into the basin. I heard and felt the rock scattering under the weight of my tires, and I felt the bike a bit unstable on the dirt road to Croton Springs. I had a good view of Slick Rock Mountain to the north and the Chisos were at my back. But the gravel road demanded my attention. Dust swirled up from the front tire coating everything on the bike with a thin layer of fine dirt. The mark of one who found life a bit more exciting off the asphalt. Creosote bushes clung to life in the rocky thin soil, punctuated occasionally by the brilliant blooms of the Acatello. I parked the bike at the end of the road by the gate. The cool waters of the Croton Springs were just ahead. I thought about all of the good times I had had while in the Big Ben. If a place can truly be called God's place, then surely this is what he had in mind. I thought about the friends I've shared this part of Texas with, the conversations, the discoveries, the absoluteness of change. I thought about the pristine winter skies and sparkling blue white stars overhead, and how problems of the world took on less significance when filtered through these canyons. I thought too about the times I had been exceedingly stupid lying beside my bike on the isolated river road, having ploughed full tilt into a sandy wash. I thought about having gotten to my campsite hours away from civilization only to discover my water supply had torn loose somewhere along the road. I sat there, lost in visions of a distant place that had never tolerated the carelessness or accepted the brash and overconfident. You approach the Big Bend with reverence. If you want to experience more than just smooth asphalt, you do so on its terms, not yours. If you are willing to accept this, the adventure is only the turn of a key away. A cold blast of air snapped me back to reality, and the canyon walls morphed into the familiar shapes and smells of my garage. I slid off the bike and covered it once again. The bright green glow of the battery chargers signaled that all was well. The oil and filter had been changed, the tires were new and fully inflated, all of the basic maintenance had been done. I felt reassured that winter's morose would yield to warmer days and yet new adventures. But I wasn't quite ready to end my imaginary journey. I grabbed some maps and headed upstairs. With a hot cup of coffee in hand, my sharp pencil rested on the printed map of West Texas. I scanned the lines in search of the elusive trail not taken. I felt the warm breath of the desert embrace my body and the gravel scattering under the weight of my tires. Winter's Morose. Written by Gene McAlmont on October 30th, 2002. Narrated by me, his son, John McAlmont. Interesting when I read through this the first time, well, not the first time, I read through it the first time when my dad first wrote it. But reading it now, knowing that I'm going to be reading it to you, I had to go through and check the pronunciations of several of the words that my father had used. And of course, in doing this, I found myself reliving moments of our trips to the Big Band because as I looked up Croton Springs and Chosos and all of the Chihuahuan Desert Floor, it brought back so many memories on being down there visually, and those visual memories sparking conversations and trips that we had had down there. So interesting that imagination, you know, the theater of the mind that we often experience when literally we want to go to a happy place. Seeing my dad sitting on that motorcycle and reliving some of those trips that he had gone down there. I I think as human beings, we all do this on quite a regular basis. I know currently, right now, I don't have a motorcycle in my barn. I plan to have one sometime in the future again. I do have a bass boat down there, and I find myself oftentimes sitting in my bass boat and uh dreaming about my next fishing trip, much like my dad dreamed about his next motorcycle trip and looking at the maps and wondering what I would do differently and the adventures I would have. And probably one of the reasons I love fishing so much is because it's one-on-one time with a friend fishing in a tournament or during a day, or it's that solitude that you get to have with yourself, with your greater power. That solitude that brings us back to so many places and reminds us that it's living in the moment, enjoying those moments, being a part of what is present in front of you at that very time that is truly what makes us all unique human beings. And can you think of a better place to do that than the Big Band in all of its grandeur? Thank you for listening and spending this time with me. If this stirs your soul like it stirs mine, and you enjoyed today's episode, be sure to subscribe and follow the podcast so you don't miss future readings and commentary. All written material featured in this podcast is the original work of my father and used with his permission. The thoughts and opinions I share are my own. This recording is for personal listening only. My voice lightness and performance are protected and may not be recorded, reproduced, or used in any form of AI training, cloning, or synthetic replication without my explicit written consent. Thanks again for being here. Until next time, keep the rubber side down and save travels.