My First

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. 

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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. This is episode 8, my first. Written December 1, 2002. In this episode, the author talks about the first motorcycle he ever rode. At least for more than a block. It was in 1966, two years before I was born. Back then there were no riding lessons other than what you gave yourself. Motorcycles were still somewhat rare, although they were gaining in popularity, especially with 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. This is my first. I pulled myself off the chain link fence and quickly looked around to see if anyone had noticed my slight miscalculation. The guys in the shop had apparently seen this all before. I scarcely rated a casual glance. The bike hadn't actually fallen over, having been wedged into the hedge growth. And there was no apparent damage. That damn brake lever. Why had they put it next to the throttle anyway? I swung my leg over, pressed the steel frame, and kicked the pushrod 90 back to life, only to stall the engine trying to move out in third gear. By that time, I had caught the eye of the shop manager who kindly offered some writing advice. You know, if you put it in first gear, ease the clutch out and give it a little throttle. You'll do okay. You do know where all of the controls are located, don't you? I got it, I said in a way that suggested I knew more than I really did. That was the sum total of my writing instructions, which for 1966 was more than most of us got. The engine kicked back to life easily and I jabbed the transmission into first. I eased out the clutch and gave it the gas, only to plough through their neighbor's flower garden and launch myself over the sidewalk. Fortunately, the grass was soft and the flowers had a cushioning effect on the bike. I saw an elderly woman yelling something vaguely obscene, shaking her cane and hobbling in my general direction. If I had been within arm's reach, I would have suffered a severe thrashing, the likes of which would have been recorded in the rare and unusual injuries section of the local trauma ward. Just ease off the throttle, someone yelled. Faced with my impending doom, I kicked the engine back to life and wobbled down the grass slope towards the street. I never looked back. I never got out of third gear. It was a long way back to San Marcos. Later that month, my dad confronted me with a cancelled check from the Austin Honda shop. It had mistakenly cleared his account instead of mine. Faced with losing what little support he could manage, I agreed to sell the bike, quit all of this foolishness, and start concentrating on my freshman studies. Life, however, is seldom that simple. Later that year, motorcycle rentals in San Marcos had come to a standstill. At the local rental shop, with a storeroom full of broken Honda Super nineties, I decided to quit the rental business. The market for broken bikes was a bit thin, so they agreed to let me build a complete bike from some of the parts. It would cost me a cool one hundred dollars. Priceless sum for a college guy. Wrench in hand, I set about assembling my first real motorcycle. I found a complete pressed steel frame with a good engine and gathered a couple of straight wheels, some shocks, front forks, and all manner of assorted bits. By day three, I had a complete Honda Super ninety. I gave them the hundred bucks in cash and they gave me a full tank of gas, about two gallons, seventy cents worth back then. I skipped classes for the next two days and just rode. That little Honda was the most responsive and agile bike I had ever ridden. Of course, it was only the second bike I had ever ridden. But it was no less magical. I rode through Wimberley, out towards Fredericksburg, and along the hill country back roads that I would later know so well. I rode to Lockhart and Luling, I rode out to breakfast on Saturday morning, I rode to class during the week, and I occasionally rode home to Austin, where I would hide the bike in an abandoned warehouse next to the bus terminal. My dad never found out. I learned how to wheelie with that bike, although it took some effort to lift the front wheel. I learned how to work on bikes as well, replacing points and changing the oil mixed easily with English one oh one. It was my first dirt bike, my first road racer, my first touring machine, my first love. Who could resist the shiny red sheet metal and the bark of a megaphone single at full tilt? Not I, said the freshman on scholastic probation. Moderation and balance in all things was the hardest lesson to learn. It wasn't long into my sophomore year that that Super 90 was replaced with a powerful 67 Super Hawk 305. It was my first new bike, and the first ever ridden to 100 miles per hour. It would be the bike that opened the door to the rest of the world. I would have my most passionate love affair with this bike. But that's another story. Motorcycles have been closely woven into the fabric of my life. Like slender silver threads woven through a fine linen. I can't imagine a life without this experience. It is who I was. It is who I am. It's amazing how history repeats itself. And it truly does. Especially when you have the same DNA, which, of course, I share with my father. What he didn't say in this article was that he met my mother while riding motorcycles. And um my grandfather didn't want to have anything to do with it. Oh, but my mom loved that long-haired guy on a motorcycle. Fast forward many, many, many, many, many years later to when I bought my first motorcycle. And no, I did not tell my dad. At that time, he was deeply entrenched in the corporate world. He didn't have very many hobbies because he didn't have time really to do anything but work and support our family. I was on my own DJing at a radio station in Greenville, Texas, of all places. And another story to be told another day put me in a position where I had no transportation and I had no money. And I wasn't about to go to the old man and ask him for another loan. So I found myself with my girlfriend at the time going to a motorcycle shop where I purchased my first motorcycle, and I got on it without a single riding lesson. Just like my old man. I cranked it up, put a helmet on, and the little girl I was with said, Do you know how to ride that thing? And I said, Well, I've been on a moped before, and I know it's one down, a couple up, I know where the brake and the clutch is. And hell, my dad rode motorcycles for decades. So it's gotta be in my DNA. I took out on that thing, and lo and behold, it was. I didn't have the same experience as my dad did. I got on that thing and I rode and found a new freedom that I now knew my dad loved. And here's the interesting part of that whole story. I rode that motorcycle home to have dinner with my parents. My dad came out and I could see in his eyes there were two dads standing there. The dad that wanted to tell me, hey, son, you don't need to be riding a motorcycle, and the other dad standing there going, Hell yeah, brother. That lit a fire under my dad seeing that motorcycle, and seeing me at the time with long hair, riding off on it. And it wasn't long after that that he dove headfirst back into motorcycles, a passion that stayed with him till the day he left this earth. History repeating itself. A father and a son, basically, buying a motorcycle the same way. 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, likeness, 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.