“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”
I'm Gonna Remember This...
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What begins as one of the worst riding days imaginable—hours of rain, freezing temperatures, snow at over 10,000 feet, and complete misery—slowly transforms into something entirely different. Somewhere along the ride, my father realizes they aren't simply enduring bad weather. They're living an adventure they'll talk about for years to come.
By day's end, one of his riding companions sums it up perfectly:
"I'm gonna remember this for a long time."
In my commentary, I relive my first ride through a torrential downpour. Along the way, I had an accident, but I got back on the bike and made it home. By the time I had taken off all the wet clothes, I realized I hadn't just endured a miserable day—I had lived an adventure I'll remember for the rest of my life.
The best stories aren't always born from perfect days. Sometimes they're created by the moments that challenge us the most—and years later, become the experiences we treasure most.
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 23. I'm gonna remember this. If you're enjoying these, please take a second to subscribe. Give us a rating of five stars or whatever the rating is on the podcast service you're watching. Drop us a note. We'd love to hear from you. If you ride a motorcycle, you will ride in the rain. It's the fifth law of motorcycle dynamics. In this story, my father explores what it means to ride in adverse conditions and reminds us that reality is how we perceive it. This is I'm gonna remember this. If you ride at all, you will eventually ride in the rain. It's one of those undisputable laws of thermodynamics. Being on the side of a Colorado mountain in the summer monsoons was not the best idea I'd ever had. Trying to fix a flat on another man's bike while drenched with water was a study in absolutes. I was absolutely miserable, absolutely wet, absolutely pissed off, and totally unable to mask my frustration. How could we be so stupid to find ourselves in this situation? It was a rhetorical question. We had so far spent four precious hours fixing machines when we should have already cleared this mountain pass. I stuffed my wet repair kit into the saddlebag and climbed on board the bike for the long trek up Colorado one hundred forty five to Telluride. Somehow I found myself at the unwilling lead, charged involuntarily with finding the way. If there was to be another screw up, my riding companions were making sure it would be my fault. It was their self preservation. I eased the bike back onto the highway, moved out, and followed the West Dolores River Canyon, and the temperature was dropping steadily. By the time we reached Rico, we had gained several thousand feet in elevation and the temperature was already in the mid-thirties. The high-tech water-based repellent I had used to refresh my arrow stitch had utterly failed, and I was soaked to the skin. I turned up the temperature on my electric vest and gloves as it protected against hyperthermia. We pulled under the modest shelter of a shed and took a pull. Nobody wanted to turn back. If we had to be miserable, then let's do it while making headway. No one could imagine what lie ahead. We pushed onward, slowing to a crawl. As we moved up the highway, I could just barely see the dim glow of three headlights behind me. My hands grew increasingly stiff from the numbing of the white cold. Then, almost imperceptibly, the first mushy ice crystals pelted my windscreen. Oh yeah. The road service grew increasingly difficult to see, as ice formed in mushy bands across my face shield. I wiped the near frozen mixture, clearing it just enough to see the approaching sign. Mile marker 52.6, lizard head pass, elevation 10,250 feet. We had arrived. I stopped the bike, sliding sideways on the icy surface. A chill swept through my body as I popped the kickstand down. Had we gone too far, had we pushed the limits too much. Doubt and uncertainty filled my thoughts. I raised my shield to the burning blast of wet cold snow. I watched snow squalls descend the mountainsides, colliding in a tempest flurry at the heart of the pass. We were alone at the top of the world. Ed rode up and parked his bike next to me. He brushed aside the icy mixture and raised his shield. He looked out at the snowy vista and turned to me, flashing a toothy grin. Man, is this awesome or what? He said. He was having a lot of fun. Cold? Yeah. Wet? You betcha. Miserable that too. But it was fun. In fact, it was much more. It was an adventure. That when it hit me, all this misery, the cold, the saturated writhing suit, and the wet underwear were part of the adventure. We were not just looking at a pretty picture. We were living the picture. We were part of what was happening. Yes, it was a little bit dangerous, but it reminded me that I was alive. Phil and Pete caught up with us, and after some thumbs up we started our descent. We rode through snow squalls that roamed up and down mountain passes, we rode through deep valleys washed clean with pure crystal water. We rode along the red canyons of the San Miguel River and watched clouds dip below the horizon and reappear like porpoises riding the bow wake of some imaginary mountain ship. We drank the coffee of the gods at a small station in Norwood, and then tiptoed across mud washed roads as we headed towards one hundred forty one, the uranium highway. We rode rain drenched roads through the small towns of Nachurita and Juraven, appearing to us as if we pulled the pages out of a giant coffee table book. We rode the Dolores River through a desolated western landscape, washed and nourished by the quenching rain. We rode Unaweep Canyon and kept company with mountain giants, guarding the precious rain swollen river. The world unfolded in front of us like a three dimensional landscape of near and far. Far and near, up and down, down and up. I was mesmerized by the majesty of it all. A couple of empty pizza boxes and several empty cans of beer adorned our pool side table. The motel was clean and quiet. We were dry, warm, and full of food, and ten hours of riding in the rain. Nothing much had been said all evening. Ed looked out over the setting sun, its rays emblazoned on red tinkled clouds over distant deep purple mountains. You know, he said, this has been the best day of riding I've ever had. I'm gonna remember this for a long time. This article has always reminded me of a famous quote by Robert Persig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintens. In a car, you're always in a compartment, and because you're used to it, you don't realize that through that car window everything you see is just more TV. You're a passive observer, and it's all moving by you boringly in frame. On a motorcycle, the frame is gone. You are completely in contact with it all. You're in the scene, not just watching it anymore. And the sense of presence is overwhelming. This article also reminds me of the first motorcycle that I purchased with my own money and did not tell my father about. It was at a time in my dad's life when he was working so hard he didn't have as many hobbies as he wanted to have. Not that motorcycle riding is a hobby, it is more of a passion. But he hadn't thought about motorcycles in decades. And here comes his son hair past my shoulders, pulling up on a Yamaha Maxim 750. We've talked about this in previous podcasts. It's the one thing that triggered my dad to purchase a motorcycle again, like father like son, like son like father. The one thing that I had not mentioned in those previous podcasts was that that evening, driving back to the small town of Greenville, Texas, where I was living at the time, I experienced my first torrential downpour. And by torrential, I mean you couldn't see your hand in front of your face on Interstate 30, riding back to Greenville, Texas. It was so bad, and I was not the most experienced motorcycle rider at the time, that all I could really do to stay on two wheels was to make sure I could see that white line in front of me, right under the front tire of the bike. Maybe 30, 35 miles an hour is as fast as I could go. The wind was howling, the rain was coming down, and I did not have a beautiful arrow stitch suit that was treated with the latest and greatest chemicals to keep me dry. I was soaked to the brim. And in my mind, all I could think about was watch the white line. Watch the white line. Watch the white line. The rain was not stopping. It was as if it was following me, tracking my every inch. Cars were passing me like I was standing still. And then it happened. An 18-wheeler traveling 70 miles an hour plus blasted by me in the same lane I was in. It didn't strike me, but it felt as if I could reach out with my hand and touch it as it went by. The force was so strong it literally blew me off the highway. The bike veer into the mud. I held on with everything I had. Instinct had me grab more throttle, not hit the brake, and the back end slid out from underneath me. I was moving sideways in what felt like knee deep water. What felt like fifteen minutes, which was probably only thirty seconds, I was able to bring the bike to somewhat of a stop. The stop, of course, was the bike sliding out from underneath me. And there I lay, motorcycle still running, slightly pinned underneath it, but not too bad, in a ditch full of water. I mustered up to strength, I got my knees under the bike, I got it up straight, and I sat back on it. The rain, it was not giving me a break, still coming down in sheets. I really didn't think at the time. I just acted, and I gave it a little power. The bike didn't move. I gave it a little more power. The bike didn't move again. I realized uh my front forks were to the side and not straight. I straightened the bike back up a little bit more, I backed it up a bit, and I did the only thing a young, stupid, long haired kid knew how to do. I gave her all she had. Mud flying, bike squiggling. I got out of that ditch and out of that water, back up onto the highway, right where I could see that white line again. The rain never led up all the way to my apartment. I got the bike parked, I got off of it, I felt like I weighed five hundred pounds. I made my way up the stairs to my second floor apartment and got inside. Took all of my clothes off. It had rained so hard that my new blue jeans had dyed my entire legs. Denim blue. I cranked up a hot shower and hopped in and started giggling. That giggle turned into a full laugh, and I thought to myself, you know, this is one of those evenings that I'll never forget. It was fun. It was a challenge. Something that the adventure seekers out there love. Just like my dad faced the challenge and was reminded by his good friend that this is fun. These are the times that we'll always remember. 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.