Highway 17

For decades, Highway 17 in West Texas was a road that gave my father equal measures of adventure and anxiety. From desert storms and mountain vistas to long rides beneath the stars, it became a place filled with memories. But one memory stood above all the others—the day his son crashed a motorcycle on the side of Interstate 20 after a ride through the Davis Mountains.

In his story, Dad reflects on the strange relationship we develop with places that have shaped our lives. Places that both give to us and take from us.

In my commentary, I share what was happening behind the scenes on that trip. I had just experienced a major setback in my acting career and was struggling to find my footing. My father took me on that ride to help me get away from it all, but disappointment and frustration followed me into West Texas.

Looking back, what I remember most isn't the accident. It's the unwavering support of my parents throughout every success, every failure, and every unlikely dream I chased. They believed in me long before I had any reason to believe in myself.

Sometimes the roads we remember most aren't the easiest ones to travel, but they often lead us exactly where we need to be.

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 19. Highway 17, written by Gene McCalmott, February 28, 2005. Highway 17 in West Texas is one of those roads that traverses a varied landscape where the unexpected is the norm. The author has traveled this road many times. In this story, he pauses at a place where history was made on a faithful day in 1993 when his son crashed his Ducati on a return trip east. And if you're wondering, yes, that son would be me. This is Highway 17. I've always had a love hate relationship with this particular stretch of road. Like most relationships it's complex and full of subtle shadings. It's not always good, but neither is it always bad. I've traveled south from Pecos through this stark landscape of failed dreams and empty farmland many times. I've seen dust devils towering over the desert dancing among rusty irrigation pumps and derelict farm equipment. I've seen rattlesnakes alongside the road basking in the morning sun. I've seen abandoned buildings that once were homes and barns now melting into the landscape in ruin and neglect. It's a well maintained road with two turns that traverses the land but stops nowhere. It is a place you go through. From Balmora to Fort Davis, I've seen mountain hillsides in full bloom with snowy white yucca, thirty foot flowering stalks of the agave crowned in gold, and the deeply yellow and tangerine flowers of the common prickly pear cactus. I've ridden through mountain showers and wind gust at Wild Rose Pass, I've seen the purple mountain majesty we sing about in waving plains of prairie grass appearing like some brown inland ocean. From Fort Davis to Marfa, I've ridden the endless road of the high desert and watched pronghorn antelope grazing among low vegetation. I've strained my eyes in the darkness to see the mystery lights. I've watched scrawny cattle trying to eke out a living from rocky soils. I've seen the desert lightly dusted in snow beneath crystal clear black skies. I've ridden this highway, alone in the darkness, by the light of the Milky Way. Highway seventeen gives to me and takes from me. Why would I have thought this trip would have been any different? We turned south out of Pecos towards the Davis Mountains. We had already ridden through rain and dust and the desert was peppered with small storms and churning dust devils. The land was unsettled and nervous. Traveling southwest, we watched storm clouds rumble and boil in the heat. Their movements seemingly at random. One particular cell tracked our path, changed as we changed, plotting its intercept course. We talked over our bike radios and decided to push on. The gathering storm drifted further west and away from our route only the road changed, taking us into the heart of the storm. A gentle downpour became a sideways torrent. John disappeared in my rearview mirror. Tiny hailstones bounced along the highway in front of the bike. I was forcibly struck from behind, then on the back inside, hailstones, the size of baseballs smashed into my helmet. Wind gust blew me to the side of the road where I lost control and dropped my bike on the slick pavement. Cars up ahead had pulled over and stopped. An old pickup appeared out of nowhere behind me. The driver yelled something in Spanish. I left the bike and ran toward the relative shelter of the truck. John appeared from the icy curtain still on two wheels. A driver ahead braved the onslaught and beckoned him towards his parked SUV. Balls of ice broke into small pieces as they smashed into his helmet. Tangled in loose straps, he could not free himself from the bike. He huddled in the relative shelter of the SUV under the stunned glaze of two small children sitting in the back. The storm quickly moved west. We thanked those who had sheltered us as they drove on. We collected ourselves, assessed the damage, and decided to press on to the mountains. We enjoyed a week of sun and cool mountain roads. We slept under the black starry skies of West Texas. It was glorious, but it had to end. We followed Highway seventeen north out of the Davis Mountains. It was slightly cold and wet, but we knew the desert would be warmer and dry. I took the lead after we crossed IH ten. Visions of hot coffee danced in my head. I knew this part of the trip would be long but routine. The land was quiet, the road was dry. Turning onto twenty from seventeen and toward my favorite truck stop, I heard the sickening sound of metal scraping asphalt. I looked into my rearview mirror to see a red motorcycle sliding across the highway, its rider trailing close behind. Rider and bike crashed into the curb in a knotted mess of tangled steel, plastic and flesh. John had hit a spot of spilled diesel fuel and had lost the bike's front wheel. A paramedic saw the accident and rushed in to help. The ambulance arrived on scene in only moments, followed by the town reporter. We had become front page news. I stood once again at that corner looking south, following seventeen to the distant mountains. The gouge left in the asphalt from John's crash years before was still evident. It was if seventeen were taunting me, or could it be that the highway had maintained this homage to the past as some kind of atonement? I looked toward the brilliant sunshine over the Davis Mountains. I knew seventeen would take me into the sky and onward to fabulous adventure. I lowered the gray shield against the glare of the sun and left Pecos behind. You see, I've always had this love-hate relationship with this road. And like most relationships, it has been complex. A lot to unpack with this particular story, because there's a lot that goes in behind it. But before we get into that, I just want to thank one of our listeners for surprising me with some jalapeno jelly. That's a podcast we did, oh, I guess last month, and uh what a great surprise it was. It paired incredible with a salted tortilla chip and a Santa Rita Hills Pinot Noir, enjoyed on my back patio with memories of the past. As writers often do, there is always a little, I guess you would say, fluff put into the style of riding to make it a little bit more exciting. But in this particular case, no fluff needed. It was baseball-sized hell falling down on us as we were headed to the Davis Mountains. And it wasn't so much that I was strangled in straps trying to get off of my motorcycle into the SUV that was sheltering me from some of the baseball-sized hell, but I was afraid to get off of the bike as I thought it would blow over. And um, what my father does not say is that was not my bike at the time, it was my dad's that I was riding. And I was petrified to leave it sitting there. So I braved the hell and covered the gas tank with my body so that it wouldn't get hell dense in it. And man, that was uh one painful day. It was also one very, very important trip in my life. I was a young man. I was making my way in the world, I was pursuing my acting career, and I had just had probably the biggest disappointment in that career my life had ever dealt me. I was all but promised a role in a major film coming up that uh was basically going to set me on the path of stardom. Casting director said I was a shoe in, my agent said I was a shoe-in. They were only bringing in a couple of other readers for it because they needed to look good, but I was the one that was going to get cast in this movie. The only thing I had to do was read the lines and not blow it. And sometimes in life, you blow it. And I blew that. And I had nothing. And my dad said, well, let's go on a motorcycle trip. Let's do some bonding. There's another podcast in the series that talks about some of the adventures we had on this trip, one of those my dad discovering his love of astronomy when we went up to the McDonald's observatory. But it was a difficult trip for me because I was in a difficult time in my life, and my dad knew that, and he was there for me. And he took utmost care in the conversations that we would have about my foreboding acting career. The trip back was going as smoothly as could be until I hit that slick spot in the road and the bite came out from underneath me, and man didn't life feel like it was over at that point. Messed up my knee, and I had another film that I was going to go do right after that. This was not a major motion picture. It was simply a student film at SMU that I quite honestly hadn't given much thought to, but that film ended up really being an incredible project and leading me to a lifelong relationship with the director and his family. I stayed in a hotel room that night by myself. My dad rode his motorcycle all the way back to Dallas and got the pickup truck to come back and pick me up in the bike, because it was unrideable and I was in no shape to ride, my knee had been fried. And we did not say much on that trip home. I remember it so well. I was I was so angry. I was angry at myself, I was angry at that slick spot in the road, I was angry at my career, I was angry at everything, and at that time, like sometimes teenagers do, and of course I wasn't a teenager and I was in my twenties, but yeah, I took it out on my dad. He was there, and he listened. The greatest thing about that was my dad didn't take it personally. He took it with stride. He knew I was going through a rough time. And he was there for me. And when we got back to the house, I stormed off. Young, angst, testosterone-filled, wannabe actor, and my dad let me go, and didn't take long for us to make up and for me to apologize for my horrible actions. And then I went off to do this film, and the director was horrified that I had a cane because I couldn't walk because I had a messed-up knee, but we made it work. And I realize, you know, looking back at that, my biggest supporters have always been my parents. My mother, who really this podcast is is done for so that we can have conversations. And my father always supported me on my crazy ideas and dreams. Always there with a firm hand when needed, and always there to lift me up and pick me up and give me a good kick in the butt when I needed it. So forever thankful for that. And hope that I am that way for my daughters as they grow up. Beautiful place, the Davis Mountains. I have actually been to that corner two to three times since that accident, and those memories come flooding back like a waterfall. So thankful for that time with my father. So thankful that he made that time for me. So thankful for these stories that I get to share with you now and relive them once again. 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.