The Letter

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.

Transcript

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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 nine. The Letter. Written March 3rd, 2003. 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. This is the letter. I looked at the letter, knowing full well what was inside. I had been expecting it. I didn't need to open it. I already knew what it said. I stuck the envelope into the toolbox and finished adjusting the chain on my three hundred five superhawk. Jerry was waiting for me at the Honda shop in Sagin, and I didn't want to be late. Today we were to meet several riders from the San Antonio Banditos. I set the toolbox inside the shed and locked the door. There would be enough time for the letter when I got back. I slipped on my riding jacket and thumbed the super hawk to life. I blipped the throttle a couple of times. The dual megaphone exhaust growled with menacing clarity. It was an awesome machine, well capable of the ton mark. It was one of the most sophisticated bikes around, with dual leading shoe drum brakes, wire spoke wheels, and tires made of fibrous concrete. Adhesion was a concept tire builders had yet to discover. Out on the highway I couldn't help but think about that ladder. It had come too soon. I wasn't ready. It had already been a violent summer, and I had just met this girl. It was all too soon. I felt expendable, swept up by uncontrolled events. I drove the throttle to the stop and hugged the tank. The twin howled louder as the revs built a nine thousand RPM. I passed everything in sight. Jerry and the animal were waiting for me at the shop. The animal was showing off his new Kawasaki 650 twin, the one that looked like an Oriental BSA. I paid my respects and went inside. Jerry was behind the counter and had worked at the shop for as long as I had known him. He was a cool guy with a laid back view of life, a lot different than my wired personality. I didn't know it then, but he would become my lifelong best friend. Lifelong. Even the word sounded temporary. We heard the sounds of bikes out front, a lot of bikes, big bikes. Animal was jumping up and down at the window shouting something incoherent. A couple of guys walked into the shop and asked for Jerry. There was no mistaking who they were. Their denim jackets flashed the banditos logo. Jerry told Jake, the head guy about the bar at Lake McQueenie. Jake nodded his head with approval. Outside, Jake waited patiently on his chopped aerial square four while the procession of one hundred bikers got started. Stick with me, he told us. Do what we do. Understand? We fell in line behind some other riders. Our bikes stood out like misplaced marbles in a bag of stone. We were cool, Jerry on his three hundred five scrambler and me on my super hawk. We moved through town and out on highways leading southwest. We cruised through light after light. No one challenged us. No one hawked. We felt like kings. We were invincible, we were in control. We were riding with the big dogs. We smoked and drank a little too much that night. The war seemed to drift into the background, and only the choppers we thought about were the two wheeled kind. We talked about anything and everything, but mostly motorcycles. There was a feeling of safety in that group. It didn't matter that we rode bikes one third the size of those Harleys and Indians. We were still bikers. The night drifted into the late hours and riders began leaving the bar heading back towards their work a day lives. Only Jerry and I were left as the owners started closing up. I finally told him that I had gotten the letter. He didn't seem surprised. We both graduated from college a few months ago, and the draft board would reclassify us as one A. Prime Meat for the Grinder Quesan, Hafong, and the Battle of Quezon Valley. Strange names that had become part of the lexicon that summer. A lot of things had changed in sixty seven. It was the year of love, it was the year of uncertainty. We graduated in the spring of sixty eight, just after the Viet Cong launched the Tet Offensive. It was the bloodiest year of the war. I think about those times a lot these days. I think about those friends who never made it home. I think about those who did return only to find an indifferent and divided nation. I think about the hidden wounds and the years they took to heal, if ever. I think about all of the young lives that are now interrupted by the machinations of a deranged mind as the nation prepares for yet another war. It's not so different today. We've just substituted a different place in a different time. I am not smart enough to understand all of this, nor do I have any answers or words of wisdom. It's just that I've seen it all before, and it's not a place I like. I know the world changed after nine eleven. It became a harder edged place. Bin Laden, Al Qaeda, the Taliban. They are all new words in my lexicon. All I wanted to do was make love to that red-headed girl and ride my motorcycle. I can only hope that history tells the story of war differently than it did in 1968. So just a little backstory. Um I was born in 1968, December of that year. That uh little redheaded girl was my mom, and yeah, he did make love to her because that's why I'm here. I remember the story of me figuring out that my mom and dad had gotten married because of me very, very well. My dad and I were sitting in our house over on Yarmouth Avenue, it was the first house that my parents had ever bought. And my dad, who was the eternal hobbyist, had uh gotten into making homebrew beer, and uh I had helped him with that endeavor making homebrew beer. And of course, my reward was to have a homebrew beer with my dad. And I was I really don't remember how old I was. I I think I was in junior high and old enough to know and not old enough to drink, but you know, a beer with your dad, there's no harm in that. The beer, quite honestly, was horrific. But my dad liked it. And I liked having that drink with him and and talking about the past and stories. And that night I put the math together and my dad saw it in my eyes as I looked up at him, and my dad immediately said, Son, we had always planned on getting married. You just sped things up. And married they did get, and they stayed together until their very last days. One of the things that I truly miss about my father was our heated and very, very debated political discussions. We didn't often see eye to eye on politics, but our heated discussions always led us to a common ground. You know, a common ground that we often don't have in society today. I wonder what those political conversations would be like in the current climate of a nation, probably more divided than it's ever been. Yet my father and I always had the ability to find a common ground. Maybe that was just because it was based in love. Maybe I gave in, maybe he did. It really doesn't matter. Because we enjoyed the time we spent together. And that time was oh so precious. 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.