“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”
Reflections of You
Use Left/Right to seek, Home/End to jump to start or end. Hold shift to jump forward or backward.
In this episode of Being There, I read “Reflections of You,” written by my father, Gene McCalmont, in 2004.
While sitting outside a coffee shop in Fredericksburg, Texas, Dad becomes fascinated by the reflections moving across a plate-glass window. What begins as a simple observation turns into a deeper meditation on identity, perception, and the many versions of ourselves that exist at the same time.
Are we the person we see in the mirror? The person others see? The person we hope to become? Or are we something larger—the sum of all our experiences, relationships, successes, failures, dreams, and memories?
Following the reading, I reflect on a question that has stayed with me: What did my father see when he looked at me? Not the son I saw in the mirror, but the person he knew through his own experiences, hopes, and perceptions.
It's a thoughtful and timeless exploration of friendship, self-awareness, and the ever-changing reflections that shape who we are.
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 McAlmont. Commentary by his son, me, John McCalmott. This is episode 17. Reflections of You. Written August 10th, 2004. We can never be quite sure who will show up when we meet someone. We are not a single individual, but rather a collection of wants and desires, feelings, and perceptions. In this story, the author, my father, notices reflections in a plate glass window that reminds him of the many aspects of personality. Here, he asks the perennial question Who am I? This is Reflections of You. It was just another day in paradise, mild temperatures, low humidity, and a familiarity of a place scented with a hint of pleasantness and finished with the aroma of fresh dark roast coffee. We had just arrived in town only moments before, having completed a brisk ride out from Round Rock. The roads were virtually clear of traffic when we left, yet it seemed that everyone had come to Fredericksburg for the day. Our bikes parked just a few feet away, gleamed in the bright sunshine of this clear autumn day. If there was something else to ask for, I could not imagine what it would be. We sat in silence, watching the procession of visitors who had moved in and out of our presence. Watching other people was something we humans found most interesting. I saw the newlyweds walking side by side in a tight embrace, as if not wanting to lose the other one to some invisible force. There was the old couple whose comfort with each other was the product of many years of familiarity. Girlfriends together, giggling, pointing, a young family pushing a stroller with their first child, two old buds sitting, drinking coffee. It was the procession of man. A strange movement caught my eye. Apparitions floated by in the glass plate window. Things began to move in slow motion as I noticed the reflection of people around me. Inanimate objects that did not move appeared as normal. The people I saw, however, were closely followed by an exact copy of themselves, as if imperfect shadows had become animated and three dimensional. These shadow people were everywhere. Some exact copies, other mere shimmering phantoms of indistinct substance. It was as if no one person was only one corporeal entity. But instead, each person was a mixture of the real and the reflected. I looked over at Cherry. He was preoccupied with a particularly attractive young lady, so I left him to his fantasy. A bike glided by with a woman and her man. She waved to me from the reflection. I waved back to the multiple images I saw of her and wondered which one was actually waving. We are not the singular individuals we think we are, but instead the sum of many individuals, many perceptions, of many wants, desires, and expectations. We are the most complex creature ever to walk this earth. There was the person I saw her to be, the person she wished me to see, the person she thought she was, and the person she would like to be. Who was she when she awoke? Who is she now, dressed in her leathers and fringe? Who did she want me to see and who did she really want to be? These things are unknowable. It is any wonder that we as humans find it so difficult to talk to each other. We really never know who's going to show up. I thought of one of my own experiences of the many men I am. In my mind, I am as youthful as I was thirty years ago. I want you to see that man. I am also the old hippie from the sixties who never really came to terms with life. I am the successful businessman. I am the husband, the father, the man some people hate and others love. I am also the man I have to sneak up on in the mirror each morning. A reflection I'd rather not be. But must acknowledge as well, plausible reality. I'm gonna get some coffee. What about you? Jerry asked as he unfolded his tall frame from the wooden sidewalk bench. Who am I? I blurted out with some surprise. What? Are you having another one of those senior moments? Don't you know who you are? What do you mean another senior moment? What I meant to say is who do you see sitting beside you? I asked this with a bit more composure in my voice in hopes of sounding somewhat more rational. He looked at me, thought about it for a while, then with careful deliberation said, I see a man in his late twenties with lots of dark brown hair and a muscular bill that is quite possibly the best motorcycle rider in the state. Huh. I knew I liked you for some reason. You are a consummate liar. Coffee? I guess it's like that with old friends. Jerry looks at me and sees the man I am, and he is comfortable with that. I too see him as the man with whom I've shared some of my most memorable experiences. Perhaps that's what keeps old friends together. We come to know the other person's reflections and know that the man is truly the sum of all of his parts. Yet when others look at me, who do they see? Is it the man I think I am? The man I see in the mirror, the man I hope to be, or is it well it boggles the mind. A fresh cup of coffee appears in my hand and a familiar shape settles in beside me. I am drawn back into the world of the plate glass window. She waves at me from her reflection. I wonder who she might be. Yes, who are we? Really? I know that I've reached a point in my life to when I look in the mirror, I wonder who's looking back at me. Who is that old man with gray hair? Definitely not me. And then when I think about my father, I see the man that I always knew him to be. A great man. Always a young man in my eyes. Often when I look at photos of him later in life before he passed away, only then could I see the fact that he was suffering from something and deteriorating. I guess I really never noticed it or saw it because I saw the man I wanted him to be. I so remember my last vivid memory of my father. It was not long before he went into the hospital to never return. It was a family gathering. We were all sitting at the table, celebrating a passing holiday or whatever we wanted to celebrate. But I had made a big dinner, and I sat at one head of the table, and my dad sat at the other, looking at me. I often wonder what man he saw when he looked across the table at me. It was our last moment together outside of a hospital bed. I know when I looked across that table at him, I like to think that he was proud of his son. He was enjoying family time together. He was in love with everything that we had all become as a family. Oftentimes when I dream, I see him sitting across the table from me. That confident look in his face and that slight grin saying, Hell yeah. You're doing it right, son. Who do you see? When you look in the mirror? Who do you want to see, and how do you want others to see you? And oh my, aren't we all still that 20-year-old in our brain, me, maybe 13 to 15? Ah, to live that life 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, likeness, 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 riverside down and save travels.