Community will miss motorcycle-riding witness

Nicholas Hons might not have known how much of an impact he had on the community before he died. It was evident at his funeral, though. Crowds upon crowds of friends and family packed the Karnes City Baptist Church to say goodbye September 4.

There wasn’t enough room for everyone to sit. There was hardly enough room for everyone to stand. When the services were over, Hons’ funeral procession made its way to a quiet cemetery on County Road 211.

It stretched three miles long and required a joint traffic-directing effort between Karnes City and state police.

A person who has lived a long life might be expected to gather up many friends over 80 or so years. Hons was just 25 when he passed on, and people young and old around the county will miss him.

Hons lived each day of his life as though it were his last because since birth, each day of his life really could have been his last. He was born with two debilitating heart conditions; pulmonary atresia and a ventricular septum defect. On top of that, he was missing his pulmonary artery.

Long story short, Hons was only getting about 60 percent of the oxygen he should have been getting from every breath. Doctors estimated he wouldn’t have too many birthdays before the condition would get the better of him.

They were wrong.

He couldn’t exert himself very hard for very long, and he was in and out of the hospital his entire life, but that never stopped him, according to family members. He wanted to do anything and everything possible.

His motorcycle was his most forward outward expression of his inner desire to go everywhere and do everything. Most of all, Hons wanted to share his faith with others. His health condition kept him from working a steady job like the average American does, so he used that time to get to know folks.

Atop his 1982 Honda Nighthawk motorcycle, Hons frequented many places and visited many people morning and night all throughout the county during his adult life. He made his rounds as he lent an ear to the community and told folks about Jesus.

He rode alone, he rode with friends, and he went out a lot of the time with his good buddy David Wiatrek. The two described themselves as Bible-believing Christians, and they rode their motorcycles together sometimes as they witnessed their faith.

"Nick was just one of those guys you could just tell him whatever you wanted to. He’d help you out any way he could," Wiatrek said. "We’d go out and we’d share with others. I remember this one time we were with my friend. He just out of nowhere started asking him, ‘Do you know where you’re going when you die?’"

Hons had no fear. He said what was on his mind and spoke what he believed to be the truth. Even when in the hospital, he didn’t stop speaking his mind and pushing himself.

"He was not the kind of person who you could just stop and tell him to sit down. He was always out and about — just one tough guy. I’d be pushing him around the hospital in a wheelchair and we’d hand out tracts some and talk with a few people," Wiatrek said. "The doctors would say ‘don’t do this,’ and he’d do it anyway. They’d tell him to walk down the hall and back once, and he’d do it three times."

He spoke to everyone he could reach — even his heart surgeon John Calhoun.

"There’s no question he witnessed to me and it was helpful, and there’s no question that the opportunity to take care of patients like Nicholas is rewarding. He was a great inspiration to his family and everyone who took care of him," Calhoun said.

The crowd at Hons’ funeral was widely assorted. From biker group members with beards and long hair, to church-going Baptists wearing suits and ties, to local law enforcement officers, Hons’ friends turned out by the hundreds.

Many of them didn’t even know each other — they just knew they all knew him and would miss his visits.

"Nick was such a very special man and both of us considered him to be our best friend," Kathy Wright said of herself and her son Bobby in a letter. "We really enjoyed his company and always looked forward to him dropping in at any given moment. He knew he never needed an invitation, and each visit would always last for hours."

"My heart is so heavy knowing I will not hear his motorcycle pulling up in my driveway anymore. I will always remember Nick when I see or hear a motorcycle on the road. Nick was such a fine example of a Christian man — he loved God with all his heart and was well prepared for when his time would come."

Many police officers in uniform also attended his funeral, their badges covered in strips of black tape in mourning.

"To be honest, the entire police community knew Nick," Texas DPS Trooper Alfred Alejos said. "Whenever you were pulled up to a convenience store getting a drink or something like that, he would always come up to you and say, ‘Hi,’ and talk. It was kind of hard to miss Nick. He was just a real friendly guy. Always. He never seemed like he was having a bad day."

His jubilant mood was despite the constant pain brought on by his medical condition. Sometimes it wasn’t so bad, and sometimes it was worse, but he didn’t let on. June 21, he went in for experimental heart surgery with hopes to come out of it in better shape.

The doctors explained to Hons how dangerous the surgery was, and how it was possible he could die on the operating table. In his usual fearless way, he gave the operation a "thumbs up." Calhoun took a piece of an artery in Hons’ arm and grafted it into his heart to increase blood flow to the lungs.

Hons came out of surgery in good shape and was feeling better than he had before at any time in his life. The blue had faded from his face and hands, leaving his complexion a healthy pink. He had more energy and less pain, and he took the world head on.

He got back on his motorcycle two weeks earlier than the doctors told him was allowed. He got back out into the community and started visiting his old friends again, not being able to wait to tell (and show) them all how great he felt.

He and a friend were riding along F.M. 1144 West of Karnes City September 1 when his bike hit a deer. He wasn’t going very fast, but it didn’t matter. He was laid to rest three days later, having lived two months of the most healthy, pain-free time he’d experienced in his life.

"We were more like brothers," Wiatrek said of his friend. "That’s why it bothers me so much, but I know he’s in a better place and it makes me happy to know I’ll see him again soon."