The Shop

In this episode of Being There, I read my father's story, "The Shop."

On the surface, it's about vintage motorcycles, British iron, and the unforgettable characters who kept those old machines alive. But beneath the grease, oil, and worn concrete floors is something much deeper—a tribute to the places that shape us and the people who make them unforgettable.

For my father, the motorcycle shop wasn't just a place to fix a bike. It was where stories were shared, friendships were built, and generations passed along their knowledge, humor, and passion. It was a place where history wasn't displayed—it was alive.

In my commentary, I reflect on visiting Big D Triumph with my dad over the years. Shops like that are becoming increasingly rare. They're places filled with endless possibilities, remarkable people, and a craftsmanship that feels like a lost art. Sometimes the best part of a shop isn't what's on the shelves—it's the conversations that happen between them.

If you've ever had a favorite place where you simply loved to spend time, I'd love to hear about it in the comments.

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 24, written December 21st, 2005, which happens to be my birthday, titled The Shop. If you're enjoying these podcasts, please give us a nice review. Give us a subscription on the service that you're listening to. Drop us a line. Writing in the 60s was different than it is today. Women were women, men were men, and British motorcycles were well, British motorcycles. Then is now, the motorcycle shop was a great place to hang out. This is the shop. There it stood, on its center stand, hovering over two pools of fifty weight as if it were not garage trained and thus innocent of this latest transgression. Even now its ability to leak oil had frustrated me to the point of distraction. My sixty seven Bonneville was a special bike. But if it were to stay together, I needed someone to help me put things right. Fortunately, that person was not too far away. I walked into the shop and was surrounded by the aroma of old bikes. The smell was familiar and not unlike pheromones that could drive a man to do things he'd never otherwise consider. I had lusted after machines like these most of my life. Fortunately, like most things I've lusted after, they had remained just out of reach. There was a shapely, fully restored Norton seven hundred fifty commando in the corner and a custom Triumph Cafe racer by the front door. In the center of the floor was the last big board triumph trident Jack Wilson had ever built. And it could be mine, if only I had the money. It had been a long time since I was in the presence of such royalty. Shops like these were special places to me. Like most men I know, hanging around a motorcycle shop was a pleasant way to pass the time. But vintage shops were different. They were like time portals, transporters to a different place, a different time, when British iron ruled the road. Hey, Jean, came a familiar voice. What's up? Having first met him at Big D Triumph in the waning days of the Jack Wilson era, Keith was the man who had kept Big D alive as Jack's health declined. I knew I could call on him to set things right. After relating my latest story of woe, Keith assured me that my problems could easily be fixed. The anticipation of a well sorted out Bonneville put a grin on my face. I asked what other projects he had going on. He took me on a tour of the shop. I couldn't help but feel that I had a foot in two different places, separated by time some forty years. Keith's shop was modern, but it still had the atmosphere of that tiny place I remembered in San Marcos. Maybe it was the old bike's. Maybe it was Keith's easy going style. But the sensation was real enough. The bike shop in San Marcos was located on the north side of town just off the highway. You wouldn't know it was anything special until you came upon the place. The old metal clad building was old when I knew it, and was probably held together by baling wire and a splash of karma. I remembered the guy who ran the place as James. He wore ragged oil stained jeans and drank a lot of beer. The fridge in the back was always well stocked with long necks and he'd share what he had with anyone who asked. A fact well known around town. We rode our bikes everywhere back then, no matter what kind of weather. We simply didn't know any better. The guys that worked in the shop were old school. Anything English or American was okay, but you wouldn't find any Jap crap in there. If asked, they'd tell you that real bikes had rigid frames with extended forks and rolled on twenty one inch rims with no front brakes. No one knew that the great tsunami from the East was coming or that a four cylinder engine mounted traversally in a frame would change the world. No one knew that Triumph would become shorthand for obsolete and that Harley would fade in the AMF air. They were men working on Jurassic machines that were doomed for extinction, yet destined to ride again from the ashes of rusted frames and rotting tires. We would hang out at the shop, drink beer, and brag about our prowess as riders. No tell was left untold, and we never let the truth get in the way of a good story. I'd sit for hours and listened to the old timers talk about the chief in Royal Infield and how they made a knucklehead Harley outrun a tricked out Bonneville. I could almost see the panther in the corner nod its headlight in approval as tales of daring and adventure filled the air. You could literally taste the oil and smell the burnt rubber of glory days and what it was like to be a real biker. Not one of those outlaw types Hollywood had made famous. I didn't know it then, but this was the good stuff. These were the men that had stood on Omaha Beach and had hacked their way through the humid jungles of some more ravaged Pacific island. Yeah, I wanted to be like them. I reached out towards the Vincent Black Shadow sitting on a lift in Keith's shop. A tiny spark from the primary case leaped through the bone dry air to my finger. I was yanked back to the present. Not many from the old school survived today, but their legacy lives on in other men, who kept the old machines on the road. I touched the exposed gear of the Vincent. I could almost feel the old bike's heartbeat. Here was a piece of history that would rise again to lay waste to the streets of Dallas. It seemed somehow fitting just now for me to be searching alongside the road, looking for my headlight lens. I had seen the retainer screw bouncing in the Bonnie's headlight in the cell, but I hadn't given it much thought. That was until the lens assembly came loose and fell out onto the roadway. I found all of the parts, but the original Lucas bits were ruined. I stuffed the parts in my Bellstaff jacket and rode home. There it sits now in my garage, sporting a black guy as if from some unfortunate encounter. Fixing the bike would be no problem. I knew quality Japanese replacement parts were readily available. It's somehow ironic that these machines now owe at least some of their existence to the very country that pushed them to near extinction. I was reminded of the mantra ride one, wrench two. It's a small price to pay for such a great ride. I smiled as I noticed that not one drop of oil graced the concrete floor underneath the Bonneville. Life is sweet. Oh yeah. Big D's and Keith. I used to love going down there with the old man. I mean it is a time capsule in history. And to say my dad couldn't afford other motorcycles, well, that fully restored Norton 750 Commando, I believe that one did become his at some point. And then upon his passing, it went back to Big D's where they souped it up a little bit and got it running and uh and sold it for my mom. A brief internet search shows that Keith is still running Big D's, and man, it looks as cool as ever. And uh I'll be honest, there are times in the year that I'll go back and look at their inventory and see what they've got for sale. Truly nothing like a good repair shop. Especially run by good people. People that'll take the time to sit and talk to you about what you want to have done and what needs to be done. So few of those truly exist in our world anymore. And as far as that Bonneville goes, well, you know if you've listened to podcasts in the past that finally got passed up to another family who re-restored it and has it living on the road in all of its glory now. Because you see, motorcycles and cars, trucks, boats, all in their own way, they are a true piece of artwork. Not only a remembrance of the times that they came from, but an expression of the person who is driving or riding it now. And that Bonneville was truly an expression of my old man. 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.