Star-Journbal Editor
About this time last August, Larry Heidel, a biker dude from Hillsboro, put on his leathers, tied on his bandanna and took his sled on an epic swoop, cracking it 1455.48 miles round-trip to the historic 65th annual mother of all motorcycle rallies — the Sturgis (SD) Motorcycle Rally; known to bikers everywhere as, simply, Sturgis.
The 66th Sturgis rally went down a few weeks ago, but Heidel didn't go, because it was too hot, he said.
As it turns out, Heidel was about to have as much motorcycle fun, right here at home.
Heidel and a couple of his biker buddies, Gordon Wiebe and Glenn Thiessen, made an epic swoop of their own this past Wednesday as the "featured weekly activity" at Parkside Homes senior living community in Hillsboro. But to more accurately describe this raucous event, calling it the first-ever "Parkside Homes Motorcycle Rally" will work just fine.
For the senior citizens at Parkside, it was a chance to remember; to cross another "I've always wanted to
The wheelchair-bound and frail elderly were parked on the sidewalk. They shielded their eyes from the morning sun to get a good look at Heidel, the retired principal, wearing black leather riding pants, and cracking wise about the bandanna on his head, which not only was cool to look at, but perfect to keep his bald head from sunburning, he said.
"Who wants to go for a ride?" Heidel said, pointing to the spiffy sidecar mounted on his black motorcycle. A sidecar is a one-wheeled device attached to the side of a motorcycle, producing a three-wheeled vehicle.
Smiling, Dave Krause, 92, raised his strong right hand. Nursing home attendants wheeled him over and lifted him, skillfully, into the sidecar. A tighter fit than his wheelchair, they double-checked to make sure his limp left hand was tucked safely in.
Just sitting in the sidecar was a tonic for Krause, who was grinning uncontrollably, as Heidel turned the electronic ignition and the 1600cc Yamaha Roadster, a Harley-Davidson clone, roared powerfully to life.
"Now if you start yelling at me while I'm driving this, I'm going to pull the pin and you're going to go off this way," Heidel said, jokingly. But the one-liner was lost on Krause, who couldn't hear because of the blatting tailpipes.
With a few whoops and lots of good-byes! Heidel cracked the throttle a little and the three-wheeled wonder car rolled by the wheelchairs, with Krause's inner child peering through the windshield of the sidecar, wide-eyed and fully alive.
Heidel's motorcycle rolled down the parking lot to Park Avenue, a .3 mile private street that circles the heart of the facility. It sounded like a whole gang of bikers as the single engine's noise bounced and echoed against the brick apartment buildings, a Doppler sound, which made it possible to hear the cycle as it went all the way around, and moments before it came rolling into sight.
While the motorcycle ride was going on, an exercise instructor stood tall among the wheelchairs, leading residents through their daily exercises. "One arm across, and down; round and round with the wrists, and the other way. Now let's exercise your lungs and cheer as Dave comes around."
The cycle stopped where it had started. The staff clapped and cheered as if Lindbergh had come back to town.
"That's a good ride!" Krause said, in a happy voice, rasped rough by the years.
Counting "one-two-three-lift!" the attendants lifted Krause out of the sidecar.
"That's a good ride!" he said again, as he passively accepted his handler's ministrations, his mind as alert as could be. "My brother had a motorcycle. We traveled all over western Kansas."
As the rally spirit continued, one wheelchair-bound man sat nearby with a more serious look on his face; a man with a mission, this was clearly more than a weekly activity for Art Wiebe, 79. It was in fact a moment he'd never thought he would have, this side of heaven; a chance to ride in a sidecar, and to relieve the accident that put him in a wheelchair.
For Wiebe, a former missionary, it was a ride of redemption.
More than half a century before, on a dusty road somewhere in Texas, Wiebe lost control of his motorcycle (he doesn't remember how, or exactly where, or precisely when). There's no need for recall. He lives with the consequences all the time.
"I am in this wheelchair because of a motorcycle with a sidecar, like that one," he said. "I lost control and it flipped over and I broke my leg."
Unaware of the drama unfolding before them, the staff cheered wildly as Wiebe rolled away; looking straight ahead, stoically. Unaware of the trip's significance, Heidel said upon their return, "I can't get this guy to smile!"
Well, you did it, a reporter said.
"Yes, today I did it without any fears or apprehension," he said, still seated in the sidecar.
"I enjoyed it."
As Wiebe reflected on the moment, Hilda Knak, 82, allowed attendants to tighten the chinstrap on the mirrored chrome motorcycle helmet. She was set to ride with Glenn Thiessen, not in a sidecar, but on the seat behind.
His bike purred as they rolled away. One imagined Knak was holding on for dear life.
"Oh, she'll hold on OK," said Clarice Warkentin, a nurse at Parkside, who also happens to be Knak's daughter. "We belted her to the back (roll bar). If she falls sideways, she'll be hanging from the belt."
The two-wheeler returned without a hitch. Knak's mirrored helmet reflected the sun, sky, clouds and the wheelchair bound all at the same time, as with a fish-eye lens.
Activity director Peggy Brandt, who writes News from Parkside for this newspaper, looked at the row of spectators.
"Any of you ladies want to go?" Brandt said. "Come on! Elma? Mary?"
Moments like the Parkside Motorcycle Rally don't come often enough to suit Brandt, who does what she can to keep weekly activities interesting.
"We're working on more interactive things," she said. "If people have something to share, or if they're willing to come down to visit a resident, even if it's just to take them to McDonald's or something like that, we need those kind of people."
The sidecar is a recent addition for Heidel. The third wheel keeps the cycle upright at stop signs, which makes it possible for him to still ride, even with a bum knee. It also makes it easier for him to travel with his wife, Dianne, by his side, he said.
One of the last riders at the rally was Dean Batt, a Marion attorney for 44 years, and to Heidel a familiar face underneath a KU Jayhawk hat worn slightly askew.
"I never dreamed I'd be hauling Dean around," Heidel said. "Because when I was growing up he was our lawyer over there in Marion."
After a whoop from the crowd and high-handed wave from Batt, the cycle went around. It returned with Batt laughing out loud.
"He says he wants one!" Heidel said.
One wag quipped, "He's a lawyer, he could afford one."
"Not with the price of gas," Batt replied.
About the ride, Batt said, "I think it was wonderful. I've never ridden a motorcycle before. I do have a doctor who rides motorcycles."
With no other takers for the sidecar, Batt stayed on board for another lap. Hiebert was laughing even harder after this ride.
He said, "Do I have bugs on my teeth?"
One of his attendants quipped, "No, those were there before the ride!"
The hour-long visit was such a hit, the Parkside Homes Motorcycle Rally could become an annual event.
Next time, maybe more residents will be willing to take a ride, Brandt said.
"We had two ladies, neither one of them will go and ride today, but they started all this when they said that riding a motorcycle would fulfill one of their dreams," Brandt said. "One of the ladies said she couldn't go because she'd just been to the beauty shop and didn't want to mess up her hair."
Thiessen, who invited his friends to rally with him, was excited that the event had gone so well.
"It's exactly what keeps these people young," Thiessen said. "It's what we're all about. We want them to live until they die, not come here to die."
This past Wednesday, some 1,455.18 miles short of Sturgis, there was an epic swoop.
That's a good ride!
