42.292,-90.014

I found my way 100 miles west to a beautiful farm. Before long there were 16 bikes in front of the garage.

Greg Bowman died two years ago. His parents were serving lunch in that garage. We would then travel to the location where his bike hit a tree at North 42.292, West 90.014.

The big garage had multiple doors on adjacent walls. Many large shelves held the tools and supplies that one expects on a farm. The walls and ceiling were insulated so that work could continue through the winter.

Two years and one week ago, Kevin and I attended the visitation for a 22 year-old who was among three killed by an IED in Baghdad. Behind the funeral home there was a cooler with water and a tailgate with a flag. Kevin signed it and I signed it. That yellow PGR flag was suspended above the three long tables that were covered with PGR yellow tablecloths.

I located our names on the flag. Dad Bowman offered a prayer celebrating his son. And then we sat.

We walked out into the vast front yard to inspect the tree that was planted in Greg’s memory.

We posed for a group photo there. Half of us were in front of the cameras and half were behind them.

We walked up the driveway, over the creek that runs through the yard, and back to the house.

And then it was time for our solemn journey.

It was 42 miles to Stockton. That was the site of the last KIA mission I shared with Greg. The day of his crash, he said he wanted to return to Stockton because the area is so scenic and “a beautiful day is simply too good to waste”.

4 miles south of Stockton, Illinois Route 78 crests a hill and then arcs 40 degrees right. New York has their ground zero. We had reached our ground zero.

The hill had concealed the site until we were upon it and the waiting flagline suddenly became visible. I have never ridden up to a flagline without an involuntary smile. Of the ten PGRiders showing the colors, half were tall and half were short. These are the short ones:

Jeff was too ill to attend so only two of the four Bowman brothers were with us. Rod came for the day from Kentucky. His daughter drove the truck that would trailer the bike back that evening. He arrived at ground zero on his bike with his wife.

His niece expressed her anguish in a poem that Rod read to us.

My dad is a cross on the side of the road.

Not here to touch; not here to hold.

He’s not here to comfort me ever again

Until I meet him up in Heaven.

He taught me to be strong and have no fear,

But it’s not easy to do when he’s not here.

The pain in my heart hurts so damn bad.

I hate having to live without my dad.

I miss his voice and his smile.

I’m afraid he will fade away after a while.

They say I’ll be fine; this isn’t the end.

But what do they know? I lost my best friend.

He is going to miss so much of our clan.

He and Mom were always our biggest fans.

He was our rock; he was always the one

To make sure everything always got done.

Like his favorite spot, the mighty Tetons,

My dad was the one we all leaned on.

His body and soul will forever rest there –

A thought that is still so hard to bear.

Now we are like ships floating aimlessly

Lost in this life we are scared will forever be.

Forever and always by the “Blue Moon”

I can still feel my dad and hope to see him soon.

“Remember the good times” they all have to say.

God I wish I could make them all pay.

Those “words of comfort” don’t help at all!

Just shut-up and let our tears fall.

Remember the good times that we all had?!

How can I do that when I feel so sad…

You don’t know what I’m feeling – I just want to scream!

I’m not venting…not letting off steam.

You have no idea! Not one single clue

What my family and I are all going through.

It will never get easier like I have been told

Because my dad will forever be a cross on the side of the road.

Lauren “Bowman” Thompson

Bowman brother Mike fastened a copy of the poem to the awful tree.

We stood at the tree. Greg’s brother Rod and his father listened as Greg’s local brother Mike remembered.

And then Rod and wife paused at the cross on the side of the road by the tree.

The leaves were beginning their seasonal color change but were still on the trees. So it was apparent that much of the awful tree was already dead. It had not been cut down, nor will it be – what would be the point?

The dogwood tree was once larger and stronger than it is today and was the largest tree in the area of Jerusalem at the time of the crucifixion of Jesus. The Son of God then changed the dogwood to its current form, shortened with twisted branches, so that it would never again be called on for the construction of crosses.

Similarly, the awful tree has been made to carry tributes to the patriot who died at its foot.

And then Rod said goodbye to his father. Perhaps they will meet again at Thanksgiving or Christmas. Both know that either could die before another meeting. You can’t live your life worrying about that, but it is something to remember.

Then Mike led Rod and the others to visit their sister-in-law, Greg’s widow. Their father went back to his home where their mother was waiting, and I went back to my home.

It started raining and continued the whole long trip back. Rain drops collected on both sides of my facemask and on both sides of my glasses. I had to focus on my riding but that didn’t prevent me from recalling the events of the day.

One image kept recurring. It was about noon when we were standing in the yard. Mike was talking to the assembled PGRiders. His approving brother stood nearby, arms folded, listening.

25 months ago at that Stockton mission, Mike was talking to the assembled PGRiders. His approving brother stood nearby, arms folded, listening.

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