I was 23 years old when I first saw someone die. He had been riding a motorcycle in the opposite direction I had been riding on Highway 522 in Woodinville, behaving much the same as I had. Riding fast, doing the occasional wheelie, etc. The difference was that he lost control, hit a guardrail and fell 20 feet onto a rocky median. The force of the accident had torn his shoes from his feet. His red CBR finally came to rest almost a quarter mile down the highway. I saw people surrounding someone on the side of the road and, being trained by Boy Scouts to help any time I could, I stopped. I remember standing 20 feet from this person so remarkably similar to myself, unable to bring myself to face the reality that he was dying until another Good Samaritan told me he didn’t think the guy was going to live long enough for the paramedics to show up. Read More