“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”
Relativity
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In this episode of Being There, I read "Relativity," one of my father's award-winning stories.
Written by Gene McCalmont in 2006 for Ride Texas Magazine, "Relativity" went on to earn an award from the Houston Press Club in 2007.
Stranded in the Chihuahuan Desert with a flat tire and daylight slowly disappearing, Dad finds himself with something we rarely seem to have enough of—time.
Having recently turned 60 and facing serious physical challenges that once threatened to end his motorcycle riding altogether, he reflects on Einstein, aging, the years already behind him, and the choices we make with whatever time remains.
What begins with a broken motorcycle becomes an affirmation of life and a deceptively simple question:
How do I want to live my life?
For my father, the answer was clear. Keep moving. Keep experiencing. Keep living.
"Everything is relative. I had made my choice."
An award-winning story about time, mortality, and choosing to live the life we have.
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 26, written March 31st, 2006, titled Relativity. Relativity is an exploration into time and how we perceive it. It is an affirmation of life and how we choose to use the time we have. This story won yet another award for the author and Ride Texas magazine from the Houston Press Club in 2007. This is Relativity. I sat in the powder fine white dust at the side of the gravel road and watched as green goo oozed from around the valve stem of my flat rear tire. The gurgling sound from within told me that I had exceeded the design limitations of this particular tire sealer. I looked at the empty plastic bottle lying next to me and wondered how this stuff could be sold with a straight face. I sat my hand pump aside and took a long swig of cool water. There was no need to hurry. I wasn't going anywhere, anytime soon. A gentle breeze swept across the road, lifting fine white powdered dust into the air, and a slow ballet playing against the dramatic backdrop of the Choluan desert. The dust curled and spun in windborne pirouettes, dancing upward, folding back onto itself, and cascading earthward into a graceful bow, only to be lifted up once again into the endless sky. I had no idea how long I'd been out there. It must have been at least a couple of hours. I looked towards the setting sun lying just above the mountains of Mexico and felt its warmth caress my wind chafed face. I had spent hours of precious time trying to fix the unfixable, while all of this natural beauty patiently awaited my fleeting attention. Long shadowy trindels of the creosote bush reached out towards distant Giante Peak, whose summit had taken on a golden red hue in the waning sunlight. I was slipped into desert time, surrounded by this sweet isolation. It's moments like this that make time more accessible to me, as if each passing moment could be felt tick by tick. I stood up and tossed my dusty jacket across the bike and took another drink of water. Overhead the sky grew an even deeper blue as twilight approached. I had grown more aware of time just recently, having passed my sixtieth birthday only weeks before. I knew it was only a number, but it was a significant one nonetheless. I had spent a good part of my life trying to fix the unfixable. I had used up too much precious time chasing after the unattainable. How many years did I have left to fix all that I had broken in life? Perhaps that is why I am here. To learn the answer to that question. Perhaps I am here because of my vanity, trying to prove that I still had it, whatever it was. But the desert has a way of stripping a man of his vanity and reducing him to his essential elements. I guess that's what I like most about this place. Existence is simple and uncomplicated. Life takes on a translucent clarity. I knew intellectually that time was relative, at least that's what Einstein taught me. He explained that time for a body in motion ran slower than for a body at rest. If it were physically possible to travel near the speed of light, a person could tour the entire galaxy and return to Earth within the span of a single human lifetime. However, the world he'd find upon his arrival would be unrecognizably old, if it existed at all. I've lived a good part of my life in motion, straddling single track vehicles. Had time slowed for me? Or was I vainly hoping for something that made me different from other men? Desert twilight illuminated the distant mountains in sharp relief, highlighting every wind carved crevass, every lofty peak and rock strewn ledge. A hawk circled overhead and called to me in a single, high pitched screech. It was the only sound in this vast desert wilderness. I looked back towards the setting sun. I could just see a small but distant plume of dust rising into the air against the dark mountainous backdrop. I'd been lucky in many ways, although I had not completely escaped the uncertainties of aging. Three years ago I was told that my motorcycling days were over and that perhaps I should consider something different to do. Osteoporosis had claimed more than thirty percent of my bone density, and multiple spinal fracture had made it difficult to even stand. I was told that any fall would likely result in something breaking. Any fall from a motorcycle could be painfully devastating. It has taken me a long time to come to terms with this. Men are supposed to get the big O, I've since learned, the folly in this kind of thinking. The distant dust plume seemed larger now, but there was still no sound, no evidence it was man made. I pumped air into the tire once again, more green goose seeped from around the valve stem. I stuck the pump into the tank bag and looked at the glowing peaks in the distance. They were so beautiful, so magnificent in their golden splendor. That I am here at all is a testament to the human will. Aggressive treatment and spinal surgery had given me at least a chance. Now it was up to me. It was my decision. How do I want to live my life? My back muscles protested as they strained to hold me upright. Pain was something I'd learned to live with. It had become my constant companion, sometimes more, sometimes less, but always there. I could hear it now. That unmistakable sound of a diesel engine. The black dooley pickup pulled alongside and stopped in a cloud of white dust. A young man leaned out of the driver's window and politely inquired as to the nature of my sanity. I explained my predicament and pointed to the green goo dripping from the flat rear tire. He suggested that I just ride the back bike to the Chianti hot springs and he'd follow along behind me to make sure I'd be okay. Hey, sounded like a good plan. A cold beer would rinse the desert sand from my parched throat, and a long soak in the lithium rich hot springs water would pacify my aching muscles. The bike squirmed and protested as I eased out the clutch and moved forward ahead of the truck. Bouncing shock waves traveled up through the suspension and through my spine, reminding me that I was still alive. A body in motion, I whispered. A body in motion experiences time differently. I stood on the pegs and lifted the bike over the next rise, throwing rocks and gravel left and right and plumes of fine white dust. If I could just keep moving, perhaps time would slow down for me as well. Everything is relative. I had made my choice. As I read this, I am now just shy of sixty. Two years. And it's interesting that my father only had eight years left after this ride. Pain is something that we learn to live with as we get older, and a lot of other things that I am discovering on a regular basis as my age progresses. It really makes you sit back and take a little account of your life. The things you have, the things you've done, the things you still want to do, the experiences that you've had, the experiences that you're currently having, and the things that you hope your body, your life, will allow you to remain here long enough to experience in the future. It is why we are here, isn't it? The experiences of life. We talked about that in the last podcast. And maybe my dad was really hitting on it during these writings, the last few that he's done. It is those experiences in life that we all want to live for. And live for them we will. I, in coming up on sixty, going to the gym and working out every day and walking every day and trying to keep the old body going as good as it can, because I too have lots of experiences that I want to do. Lots of things that I've screwed up that I'd like to fix. Lots of time that I want to spend with those that I love. 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 safe travels.