Gregory Vance Baynham

Gregory "Greg" Vance Baynham of Avon, Indiana, was born May 10, 1967, in Lexington, Kentucky, but has now transcended to Nirvana where he will reside eternally.

At least, that is one interpretation.

Those who knew Greg might argue that he has not actually died at all. He may simply be meditating somewhere, having finally achieved the higher plane of consciousness and complete awakening he spent years trying to reach while the rest of us were distracted by jobs, mortgages, alarm clocks, and other completely unnecessary inconveniences.

For legal and recordkeeping purposes, however, we are apparently required to report that Greg died on September 9, 2026.

Greg spent his life moving, exploring, riding, traveling, disappearing, and eventually resurfacing somewhere with a story that usually required several follow-up questions. Greg understood something many people never do—life was happening now. Not after retirement. Not after the promotion. Not when the calendar cleared. Now. And Greg was not about to miss it.

He is survived by his partner in love and adventure, Beena Deming; his daughter, Kristina of Indianapolis; and his brothers Matthew of Louisville, Kentucky, and Jeff (Sanders) of Raleigh, North Carolina. He was preceded in death by his saint of a mother, Ann Gray; his father, Ritchie Baynham III, who later transitioned and became Rebecca "Becky" Baynham; and Matthew's twin brother, Richard.

Greg was the family's first grandchild, which meant he was spoiled rotten and considered that arrangement entirely appropriate. Then the twins arrived, and Greg discovered the joy of torturing younger siblings; in this endeavor, he was quite gifted.

Greg also had a remarkable ability to convince other people to do things that, in hindsight, probably deserved more consideration. His brother Jeff can attest to this. Greg bribed him to smoke his first cigarette at age 6.

It was marijuana. Apparently, beginning with tobacco seemed unnecessarily cautious.

Greg loved a good party—the kind found at the Indianapolis 500 (whether or not the race itself was ever the point), New Orleans during Mardi Gras or New Year's, and hash runs that were only nominally about running. Then there were his magnesium-enhanced bonfires, ridiculously large affairs that probably needed their own permit. Apparently, huge was not enough—they had to be spectacular. There were probably several other events his family still does not know about and, at this point, may be better off not knowing about.

His professional life was just as unconventional. Greg became an entrepreneur early, selling rocks and fireworks as a kid, and later ran his own company, Cyber Solutions, which contracted with Acme Masking and sold items on eBay. Along the way, he found other creative ways to make enough money to support what he considered his real full-time occupation: living.

Greg understood economics in his own way. Money was useful. Time was priceless. If making a little less meant riding his bike, taking a trip, seeing a concert, or disappearing on a beautiful afternoon, the choice was easy. He adjusted work to fit life. Never the other way around.

Perhaps the biggest surprise of his life was nearly five years in the making: his daughter, Kristina. The moment Greg saw her picture, he knew. That was his daughter, his Girly. He did not waste another minute. He stepped into fatherhood completely, enthusiastically, imperfectly, and in the only way Greg knew how—all in. The rest was history.

Greg loved the outdoors, cycling, motorcycles, the gym, travel, and especially exploring Kentucky on two wheels. If the weather was nice, he probably was not home. If it was really nice, he was probably nowhere near home. And if you asked when he would be back, there was a fair chance Greg did not yet have that information himself.

There was rarely a straight line from Point A to Point B with Greg, but there was almost always a great story afterward.

Music followed him through all of it. Especially Rush.

Greg took Matthew to see Rush in Louisville, but not without an entrance exam. Greg sent him Rush documentaries to study, then called before the concert to quiz him. Fail the test, and the ticket went to Jeff. Matthew passed.

Greg took Rush seriously.

Greg saw Rush more times than anyone can reliably count (we think 45), and somehow every concert still felt exciting. For someone who spent so much of his life in motion, "The Garden" seems an especially fitting way to think about him. "The measure of a life…" Greg never measured his by hours worked, titles earned, or perfect attendance. He measured it in miles traveled, music heard, people loved, stories created, adventure, freedom, and the people fortunate enough to come along for the ride.

In Beena, Greg found a true companion for that ride, someone who matched his enthusiasm for adventure and could share love, laughter, exploration, and a life that made sense to him. Together they took off whenever adventure called—by bike, motorcycle, or plane—treated rock walls as invitations, and turned gym time into their own kind of hangout. And through it all, Beena was there with her camera, a genuinely gifted photographer who made sure the adventures didn't just get lived—they got captured. There were still adventures waiting, roads to ride, places to go.

And, tragically, Greg never got the chance to install those ridiculous glow-in-the-dark wheels on his rollerblades. Anyone who knew him understands he absolutely would have worn them. Probably somewhere he was not supposed to be rollerblading. Probably while telling everyone else to relax.

Greg spent his entire life refusing to stand still, so it seems unreasonable to expect death to accomplish what schools, employers, geography, good advice, common sense, and several decades of adulthood never did. That was Greg. If there was somewhere he wanted to go, he found a way.

Once, he somehow made it to the top of what was then Bank One Tower in downtown Indianapolis, climbed up to the giant rings, and sat on them. The lesson, according to Greg: just act like you belong. He was not going to be denied. Greg always found a solution. Sometimes creative. Sometimes brilliant. Sometimes sketchy. Usually, all three.

Somewhere beyond what we can see, Greg has found perfect weather, an open road, a motorcycle with a full tank, Rush playing nearby, and absolutely nobody asking what time he plans to be home. Maybe the peace he found in his Buddhist ways has followed him there. Greg has entered Nirvana.

Or maybe he is just Greg, still wandering, still exploring, still making somebody ask, “Greg, are you sure this is a good idea?” And we can almost hear the answer: “Of course it is.”

For Greg, “in the fullness of time,” the garden was never about keeping everything perfectly neat. It was about tending what mattered: love, respect, freedom, curiosity, adventure, family, friendship, and squeezing everything possible out of the absurdly short amount of time we are given. His garden may have been a little overgrown. But it was one hell of a garden. And one hell of a life.

The arrow has flown. The adventure continues.