a year or so, we'd gather just to chat about lives and loves, wins and losses. Our conversations flowed easily, the time quickly.

Jim moved on to teach at Middleton. A fine woodworker, he built his own home between Cottage Grove and Stoughton. I helped him work on the house one weekend when his friends gathered to share skills and sweat.

Jim finished a basement recreation room and filled its walls with trophies, awards and medals. He thrived on canoe racing, cross country skiing and triathlons.

But he collected his last award sometime before that fateful motorcycle ride on Sept. 26, 2002.

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You've seen them already, this sure sign of spring. Not bulbs emerging from the earth, nor buds from branches, but motorcycles emerging from garages and storage units. Many bikers thumbargue that they'll likely only kill themselves in an accident.

Jim always thought he was a safe rider. He thought that if he was aware enough of his surroundings, he could avoid trouble—it had worked other times through the years.

But he also knew that most cycle accidents are serious in nature.

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Jim Winters was motorcycling north on County N at about 4:30 p.m. that autumn day of 2002. Heading toward Sun Prairie, he planned to meet another of my former teachers and her husband. They wanted to roller ski, to work out.

He was only a few miles from home and had crossed Highway 12. He was nearing Natvig Road as an oversized vehicle, perhaps a tractor, approached. Behind it was a string of cars. Among them was a Buick, a