“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”
What Do You Think About This?
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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.
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 15. What do you think about this? Written February 27, 2004. Sometimes things are as they are for no apparent reason. In this story, the author, my father, meets an old railroad man who brings him a sense of understanding about things from a Native American point of view. He explores the difference between what a man does for a living and who the man is. What do you think about this? I pulled into the old train station outside Shama, New Mexico and parked my RS eleven hundred GS in the shade of a live oak beside a nearby restroom. It had been a long and hot ride coming down from the Colorado mountains. Texas was still another day away. Some cool water splashed on my face offered much needed relief from the heat. I walked outside and sat on the steps overlooking the old train yard. The perched wind cooled my face and dried my sweat drenched hair. I saw a group of railroad men sitting outside one of the machine shops talking and sipping cool drinks. Two tourists sat just across the way at the train station, cameras in hand, waiting for something. A faint chugging sound caught the breeze. My heart raced at the prospect of maybe seeing one of the old steam engines still running on this line. I could just make out the puffs of black smoke rising beyond the old coal yard. I ran to the bike, grabbed my camera, and took my position back at the steps. The sounds grew louder, and the mournful wail of the steam whistle announced the approaching locomotive. I felt someone behind me and turned to look. An old man was standing there, in his faded jeans and red checkered shirt. A dirty white scarf loosely tied around his neck, and a blue denim cap suggested he was one of the railroad workers. His deep set eyes and high cheekbones hinted at his Native American heritage. When he spoke it was as if I was hearing a voice from the past. What do you think about this? he asked in a voice sounding like that of Chief Dan George. I have been working on this railroad all my life. I remember when the trains carried wood from the mountains. We loaded the cars by hand one log at a time. It was hard work, but we were glad to have jobs. The woodcutters in the mountains would wait for us by the tracks. We brought them supplies. They were glad to see us. We would tell them the news. They would share their tobacco with us. They're all gone now. In the distance I could hear the locomotive rounding the corner. The tourists were rushing out to the tracks to take pictures. I turned back to look at this man. Now the trains carry only these people, he said, waving a hand towards the tourist. These boxcars you see before you, they're old, like me. They're not much good anymore. What do you think of those cars? he asked. I looked at the old wooden boxcars sitting on the sidrack. Denver and Rio Gran Railroad was painted on their sides in faded letters. They are indeed old, was all I could say. The young men think I'm like these boxcars. They think I'm not much use anymore. They get the good jobs, but they do not stay. They do not feel the same about this railroad as I do. What do you think about that? Old number four hundred seventy eight pulled into the train yard. The engineer gave a long tug on the whistle as the immense machine came to a stop right before us. The locomotive was a living thing. Steam billowed from the pipes along its side as it breathed in and out. It extruded the sounds and smells of the distant past. The tourists were frantically taking pictures. The young engineer, posing a striking figure, smiled down at them from his lofty perch. There's not much left for me to do now, he said, looking at the old locomotive. But there is no other place for a old railroad man to work. D'ye think that's fair? That the young men get the good jobs? I turned and looked at the old man beside me. I don't know if it's fair or not. I can only say that for this moment that's the way it is. He looked at me and smiled, as if he sensed that I had at last understood the nature of things. He told me his name was Elroy. I told him my name and extended my hand in friendship. His calloused hand felt rough against my skin, but his grip was strong, and his eyes sparkled with youthful vigor. He looked deeply into my eyes and said A man must be more than what he does for a living. He withdrew his hand, nodded his head, and then walked away towards the machine shop. I rode up the hill, turned south and left Sharma in my rear view mirror. The dry wind curled around through my riding suit and cooled my sweating body. It felt good to be back on the road to Santa Fe. I was once again alone with my thoughts. It was unfair for the old man to be seen by the younger workers as too old to be of use, and yet I could see parallels in my own life. I, too, was growing older in a business that worshipped tech savvy youth over the seasoned professional. This world had defined me in many ways. It was part of who I am. But it would not last. Sometimes things are the way they are for no apparent reason. It is just the way it is. Nothing more. But a man can be more than just what he does for a living. Perhaps he saw this in me. Perhaps he was telling me to be more than I am. He was a railroad man. But he was much, much more than that. A man must be more than what he does for a living. That line just always stands out for me because my father was much more than what he did for a living. He had an old saying, Every time I would call or walk into his office or interrupt him when he was extremely busy doing something, and it was Son, I always have time for you. Something I say to my children now. The fact that my father was at a railroad station just outside of Santa Fe is of no surprise because my dad was a massive fan of the railroad. In fact, he had one of the largest in-scale railroad collections of any man I know. And uh we enjoyed that hobby together for many, many, many years. He took much time and detail in creating real-life scenarios and painting of buildings and scenery and the building of mountains out of some sort of clay mold that he made up in Oklahoma to give the railroad a very unique and realistic viewpoint. Because, you know, my father never did anything half-ass. It was always 110% or nothing at all. And that was true for his family as well, because a man must be more. Because a man must be more than what he does for a living, and my father was all about family. Always there when we needed him, and there when we didn't. So, what do you think about this? Should a man be more than what he does for a living? I definitely think so. Things that I try to pass on to my family now. 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.