Last Thursday was the kind of day that makes one revel in the glory of being 22 years old. It was the beginning of a four-day weekend, Friday was payday, I had tickets for a Passion Pit show in Milwaukee and the winter weather was finally breaking. It was impossible to avoid the signals that spring had finally sprung: olfactory reminders of the sacred goodness of grilling out, unavoidable conversations about the Brewers’ chances this year and the familiar high whine or guttural growl of motorcycles returning after a winter of malcontented hibernation.

It almost seems inevitable that with the return of the motorcycles to the road every spring comes a horrific, cringe-inducing accident. The mathematics involved in these accidents is not difficult — motorcyclists have been anxious for this day for months and some drive with a brazen disregard for danger; unfortunately, these motorcyclists do not stand much of a chance in a collision with another vehicle.

I was forced into the unenviable position of having to do this math when I called a friend to inquire about plans for the night. I expected to hear word of a party or plans at the bars but instead I was given somber news of a friend who had been involved in a motorcycle accident. A photograph of the scene that ran in the next day’s newspaper, as well as updates from friends in the hospital, confirmed that it was the type of accident that seems to tragically mark the beginning of every spring.

Although there was a damper, I went on with my weekend as planned. I tore through my paycheck as if I am not thousands of dollars in debt, I was blown away by Passion Pit’s live set and I caught up on sleep more than any respectable person should ever require. Even better, updates trickled in that suggested my friend was hanging around, and even taking steps toward a miraculous recovery.

I was wrecked all over again when I was scanning the sports page of the local newspaper on Monday morning. A short brief from the Associated Press told of an Ohio high school that was mourning the death of a star offensive lineman named Matt James. James was set to play football for Notre Dame in the fall, but he fell to his death from a hotel balcony while on Spring Break in Florida.

I can only hope that my friend does not meet the same fate as James, but I cannot help but see a similarity of circumstances between the two. Both of these people were at the zenith of their youth and celebrating it, and while one has already paid a dear price, the other is fighting to avoid the same fate. I might have used this occasion to call for a crack down on risky behavior by motorcyclists or a strengthening in the laws governing underage drinking, but I will not. Despite the best of intentions, it will never be possible to legislate the recklessness out of youth. I will take this occasion to remind myself, and anyone reading, of the only silver lining in a tragedy like this: life, even for the young, is fragile, and it is not something to be taken for granted.