The Bobber

Episode 27 – The Bobber

In this episode of Being There, I read my father's story "The Bobber," a look back at the summer of 1966 when he and a friend decided to build the ultimate motorcycle.

They were college kids without much money—and apparently without much concern that they didn't really know what they were doing. They started with the remains of a 1947 Triumph Speed Twin and a vision. What followed was an education in engines, paint, chrome, broken parts, empty wallets, cold beer, good friends, and the occasional lesson learned the hard way.

Eventually, they built their Bobber. It ran. It looked great. And then, in one spectacular moment, it quite literally started throwing pieces of itself down the street.

But that's really not what the story is about.

In my commentary, I talk about something I know I inherited from my dad: the love of a good project. I love figuring things out, building something, making mistakes, and especially doing it alongside friends.

Because when you look back, the finished project isn't always what you remember. You remember the people who were there, the problems you solved, the things that went wrong, and the stories you still laugh about years later.

Maybe that's the real journey a man was meant to take.

Not simply finishing something—but building it together.

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 McAlmott. Commentary by his son, me, John McCalmott. This is episode 27, The Bobber. When two college kids decide to build the ultimate motorcycle, they realize the journey was more important than the goal. Written June 13th, 2026. The Bobber I was never really sure of what I wanted to be when I grew up, and at least that part of me hasn't changed. However, for a brief time in the summer of 1966 my path seemed perfectly clear. When I lifted the tarp covering what was left of a nineteen forty seven Triumph Speed Twin, I knew immediately what had been missing in my life. The fact that the owner would let me pay out the two hundred dollars he wanted clinched the deal. My friend Jerry and I loaded the collection of parts into his truck and headed for Billy's house in Seagan. Billy's fridge was always stocked with cold beer and the extra room in the back of his carport was the perfect place to work on the bike. As we drove, visions of a custom hardtail played in and out of our conversation. How a couple of penniless college kids would pull this off, well, that was never questioned. Jerry and I began taking the triumph apart only to discover that the five hundred C C engine was hopelessly seized. Neither one of us had a clue about how to fix it. So we gathered all the engine parts and headed for Indian motorcycles of San Antonio. They were the only shop that could install the needed iron sleeves and new pistons. Indian had long since gone out of business, but these guys made a living keeping the old bikes on the road. The shop reminded me of purgatory, packed with brip bikes and old Indians waiting for their next incarnation. A triple bobber caught my eye. I told the shop owner, that's kind of like what we're building. He wished us luck. While the jugs were being done, we took everything else off the frame, with the help of Billy's friend, Glenn. Some bits were set aside for painting, and I took the rest to a chrome shop that I knew on the south side of San Antonio. Charlie, who owned the place, was drunk most of the time. So Manuel, his right hand man, actually ran the place. Manuel looked over the collection of fenders, wheels, and spokes and said he'd do his best, but couldn't guarantee that the old stuff would hold together. He told me to come back next week and bring cash. Jerry had away with a spray can so he did all of the painting. I continued cleaning parts and fixing the things I could. Cans of bolts, washers, and other stuff collected on the floor and chairs. Eventually we got all of the parts back in one place and the chrome wheels and spokes looked amazing. The new pistons and cylinder sleeves fit like a glove, and the bike was ready to go together. We got the machine partially assembled and we were anxious to test fire the engine. I squirted some oil in the open plug holes and pushed on the kick starter to cycle the pistons. But they only went so far. Glenn grabbed a two by four and wedged it between the kick lever and foot peg. Before I could protest, he heaved on the board with enough force to break the pistons loose. A tinkling sound came from somewhere within the engine. Glenn grabbed a beer and made a quick departure. I looked at Jerry. We both knew the engine would have to be rebuilt again. The guys at the Indian shop were unsympathetic. They said come back in two weeks and bring cash. I rigged up a stand to hold the wheels and began to lace the brightly chromed spokes into the rims. I was surprised that I had a knack for this kind of work, and things went together smoothly. When the jugs were finished, Jerry and I reassembled the engine and dropped it into the almost completed frame. It didn't take us long to put the rest of the bike together. The fact that we had leftover parts never really worried us. We unloaded the machine and parked it in front of our apartment in San Marcos. We sat in a couple of lawn chairs and sipped cold brews while reveling in the adulation of admirers who had gathered around to see the magnificence of our handiwork. The new tires and chrome wheels looked awesome, set against the freshly painted frame and polished engine cases. We had done it. All that was left was to take it for a test ride. With fresh gas in the tank, I tickled the carburetor float between the twin Delortos and nudged the engine to a power stroke. A click of the toggle switch brought the magneto online. Sweaty palms gripped the handlebars as I swung the Kickstarter through its arc. The speed twin fired immediately to the sound of applause from our adoring onlookers. As gently as I could, I eased out the clutch and moved on to the street. I accelerated up through the first three gears, accompanied by the growl of open exhaust and a full body adrenaline rush. If I wasn't going fast, it sure as hell sounded like I was. I circled the block and pulled back in front of the apartment, blipping the throttle as if announcing my arrival in the court of the Crimson King. The bike burbled with authority. I was living large. Someone said Do a burnout, man. It was the invitation I needed. I blipped the throttle, fire shot out of the open exhaust, people backed away from the curve as hot wind fluttered through my faded denim jacket and long dark hair. I revved the engine and dumped the clutch. The bike lurched forward with a brutal display of power and immediately sat down on the asphalt as spokes and bits of metal flew into the air. The rear wheel had thrown every chrome spoke I had so meticulously laced. Manuel was right. The old stuff didn't hold together. Jerry put a cold beer into my trembling hand and said, Man, that was fucking awesome. Out of money, out of time, and facing imminent suspension from school, I turned my attention to my summer classes and scored enough grade points to stay enrolled for another semester. Some months later, I sold the bike to a guy who was looking for some meaning in his life. I've always wanted a bobber, he said while stroking the sprung single seat. It's kinda like what's been missing. Yeah, I know that feeling, I said. He gave me two hundred dollars and rolled the bike into his truck. I wished him well. Something that I know my father passed down to me, and it's something that most fathers pass down to their sons. The project. Men love a project. They love a garage. They love everything about the journey. Two of my very best friends, Dave and Mike, when we all get together, we don't get together unless we have a project. We have to have something to do together. And that project is always a journey that leads into conversations and the past and the future and what's going on in each other's lives. Those projects are what sparks the curiosity of men. It makes us who we are. My father had way too many projects. In fact, he had multiple projects upon multiple projects. Something that I remind my good friend Mike, because he is into the projects and has multiple projects upon multiple projects. My other friend Dave, he gets his projects done. He has one project, gets it done, moves on to the next project. In fact, Dave and I had a project of building a shelf for my oldest daughter who just went to college. And what a great excuse that was to spend an entire day hanging out with my best friend. A project. A day that we built a shelf, similar to my dad building a motorcycle, similar to all of the projects that we as men and as humans like to dive into and have an accomplishment that we can sit in a lawn chair with a cold beer and sit back and look at it. And oftentimes, maybe not this time from my father, but oftentimes when it breaks, well. That's just a good excuse for the project to start all over again and take a new journey. 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.