Tres Cervezas

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.

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 McCalmott. Commentary by his son, me, John McCalmott. This is episode 14. Trace Cervezas. The year was 1967, and it was the first trip the author and his friends made to the Big Bend country of West Texas. They were young, penniless, inexperienced in riding what we now call classic motorcycles. Despite all of this, they found unexpected friendship in an encounter with Mexican Cervas. This is Trace Cervas. I felt a sharp rap of a stick against my leg. Oh my papa, the young boy said. No, Pepito, I don't think they are okay, replied the old man. It was a struggle opening my eyes and I could just make out the silhouettes of my tormentors. My mouth tasted like used motor oil, and what muscles that worked did so with much protest. I looked around for Paul and Larry, finding only a pair of boots sticking out of the reeds close to the water's edge. They seemed still attached to something. I looked across the river and saw a bike lying on its side in the soft sand. It looked vaguely like my Bonneville. Here, amigo, drink some of this while I find your friends. The sweet, cool coffee helped jog my mind and wash away the taste of leftover frioles. I could hear the old man rapping at other legs as he checked the casualties of last night's pleasure. It had been one of those unexpected evenings in a land where the unexpected is the norm. We had arrived at our camp at Black Dyke outside Carlston in the shadow of Sierra del Chino just yesterday, only to discover that all of our fresh water and most of our food had been lost somewhere along the river highway outside of Presidio. It was our first trip to the Big Band, starkly evident by our present condition. It was a wonder that we had made it this far. My Bonnie's electrical system had self destructed somewhere near Marfa, and Paul's pan head harley had already left him on the side of the road several times. Only Larry's bridgestone had made it this far with our problems. Although the smoking exhaust surely contributed to the extinction of several indigenous species. Hungry and thirsty, someone at the Calstone store had suggested that we make the trip to Bokilius Crossing and take the ferry boat over to Boquillas, Mexico, where our meager funds would buy us a nice dinner and some cervasas. We arrived at the crossing at Boquillas around six in the evening with plenty of daylight left. We crossed the river to the Mexican side in a small rowboat and jumped in the back of an old pickup for the ride uphill to the village. At least we had enough sense not to swim the river last night, Paul said as he looked across to the US side. I could tell he wasn't hitting on all cylinders. He stroked his sunburned bearded face as if surprised it was still intact. Where's Larry? I don't know, I said. We heard a quick rap and a moan from the reeds behind us. No doubt another casualty had been found. I didn't know what to expect when we arrived at Falcon's restaurant. There were no electric lights anywhere, only the occasional lanterns sitting on a concrete table. But the smell of cooking meat was unmistakable. We ordered tacos, frioles, rice, and cold cervasas in small six ounce bottles. We stuffed ourselves with spicy food as the sun dipped below a blazing red horizon. A cool breeze drifted up from the river. We could hear laughter and the fusion of Tehano music coming from the dimly lit cantina across the way. It was an invitation to explore. Looks like we're all alive, Larry said as he brushed at the sand on his chest. His dirty clothes suggested that a portion of his body may have missed dry land. I seem to remember well not much. The little cantina was crowded and bathed in the warmth light of several lanterns. One hung over a well worn pool table. There was a propane refrigerator near the makeshift bar where a battery operated tape player belched out the tunes of Little Joe and the Lantiners. Hola, Mi amigos. What can I get you to drink? The bartender asked. Traceervas e tequila, porfavore, Larry said. The bartender opened the old fridge which was packed with small bottles of Carta Blanca, and withdrew three from the top shelf. He sat them on the table along with three small glasses which he filled with a clear, oily liquid. Two dollars, porfavo, amigos. It was the beginning of the end. We drank Carta Blanca with shots of tequila and played pool well into the night as we emptied the old fridge. Laughter filled the small cantina in a multi cultured blend of well oiled stories and broken English, portraying our story Mexicana in the light of a kerosene flame. We watched the old man and the young boy row back towards the Mexican side of the river and vowed to return in the spring. The Harley failed completely about halfway home, and Larry's bike seized a piston outside of San Antonio. We never did go back. I hung up the phone this morning after talking to a park ranger. He told me that the little village had fallen on hard times since the crossing was closed after nine eleven. He said some people had defied the closing and went anyway. But it was risky. I know things change. It's to be expected. The world is a harder place today, and that saddens me a little. But those innocent times will forever remain the same and alive in my memory. Trace Cervasis over four. It's very interesting on this journey that I take with reading the writings of my father. This is one that slipped by me and I do not remember. Maybe it was one that he failed to send me back when I was in my age of experiences like this. And as you heard the story, hopefully you're reliving some of the experiences that you've had in your youth, throwing caution to the wind and dancing to the flickering candles of a kerosene light after maybe a few too many shots of tequila. And if you did remember one of those, share it in a comment or a fan email and let me know. I would love to hear of an experience that uh this reminded you of. Just one word. Maybe Mexico. Because I do know that it reminded me of several experiences in my youth before marriage and kids and responsibilities that take precedence over throwing caution to the wind. Memories that within me will also remain forever alive in my memory. 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.