We lost a dear friend of Soup, and an even closer friend of mine, Travis Stidham, last weekend. Travis passed away peacefully in his sleep at the age of 57. He practically grew up at Castle Rock, inheriting his passion for racing as a second-generation enthusiast. At 16, he earned his motorcycle endorsement on a blazing Kawasaki triple, and his heroes were legends like Kenny Roberts, Troy Bayliss and Valentino Rossi. He club raced in the Pacific Northwest, never losing that spark. He religiously listened to at least one Van Halen song a day. A true romantic, a spirited carouser, and one of the funniest people I’ve ever known, Travis was a great friend to me and so many others. I’m really going to miss him.

He is survived by his parents, two sisters and an absolutely stunning 1982 Kawasaki Gpz550

In 2006 he wrote the following story for Soup. -- DFA

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(Originally published Friday, June 09, 2006)



Some people will say that the fun is in the planning, while others will argue that Satan lives in the details. I agree more with the latter. After all, it takes a hell of a lot of work to plan a 14-day adventure to Europe.

Logistics aside, I had some major decisions to make and, yes, I even hurt some feelings along the way. I had the cash and the vacation time built up to see a motorcycle race in Europe. 14 days of non-stop, head-spinning fun.

My original dream had me seeing both World Superbike and MotoGP. Like a lot of you, I've been known to plan my weekend around the TV in order to see a race. Which is why I chose Italy and Spain as my destination. As Steve McQueen used to put it, they both have "juice". They love racing just like I do.

Enter Monza: the Autodromo. "The Temple" as many people like to call it. To me, it was the centerpiece of a much-deserved vacation.

The plan started out years ago in the dusty confines of a campsite at Laguna Seca. I was leaning on a fence, looking out towards Rainey curve with my buddies who I met at the same spot many years ago. I had just set up my tent when these boys rolled up next to me on newer Kawasaki ZX7's. I befriended these Oregonian sportbike riders with a cold beer.

These guys were fresh off a 10-hour ride from Muzzy-town-Bend, Oregon-and they were at Laguna to watch the WSBK race and be a part of the Cannery Row madness. As we all know, nothing is better than bench-racing at the track. Eventually, the conversation evolved towards the thought of someday maybe going to see a race in Europe. But, where to go? There are so many choices.

Time passed and, again, I found myself at Laguna Seca for the 2005 MotoGP race. I was standing at the Corkscrew with the same set of friends. As the race ended and Nicky did his parade lap, we all looked at each other and declared that we missed watching the World Superbikes. Summer passed, and racing was over for the year. What to do now?

It was Halloween, and I was on a small fishing boat in the Sea of Cortez 200 miles north of La Paz, Mexico with my old friend, Dan. We try to do a fishing trip once a year to a new location, so there we are, fishing and enjoying the warm weather.



After a few hours of reeling in some big fish, our conversation turned to the subject of going to Europe. I asked Dan, "Hey brother, let's go to Europe next spring or early summer, bring our fly rods, check out a race, and eat and drink like kings." He replied, "I can't, brother. I'm coaching baseball next spring."

It was Thanksgiving, and I was sitting around the table at my oldest sister's house getting ready to eat when my brother-in-law Jim asked me what I thought about them going to Italy? "Cool!" I said. "When?" "Not sure." was his short reply. "Well, if you go, I'll meet you guys over there for dinner or something fun." But, they ended up going to Florida instead.

Meanwhile, my mind explodes with the possibility of finally committing myself to going to Europe. But, what race series do I want to see? MotoGP? WSBK? The goal was "both," but whom should I take with me? Girlfriend? Go solo? I needed to start doing research and the rest would fall into place.

I asked my parents if they would like to meet me in Europe. They're retired and my Dad is a full-blown racing enthusiast (he took me to the Castle Rock TT as a child to see these dirt trackers from California named Rainey and Lawson). But, Mom and Dad didn't want to go.

It was the middle of January, and I needed to start booking hotels, flights, and cars. I still needed to decide on a race to go to and a destination. I printed the 2006 race schedules and posted them on my corkboard at work to remind me. I then emailed Dean for his opinion on Monza. He fired back reply at an alarming rate and told me that Monza is the coolest track ever. Then I thought about Troy Bayliss' and Colin Edwards' epic high-speed battles of elbows and paint. My mind is made up. I am going to Monza. Monza, Italy.

It was February, and my friends and I were having after-work cocktails. My friend Steve and his wife just got back from a 10-day trip to Lake Como (he rides a Guzzi). He was telling us all stories and showing pictures of the trip. After 3 Woodford Reserve Manhattans and a large mac & cheese at the West 5, our friend Langler spouts off, "I'll go to Italy with you, but I need to finish the quarter for work. Anytime after April 30th will work."

Perfect. I had a trusted friend and neighbor going with me who just the previous summer had bought his first motorcycle-a cherry red 1975 Honda CB360-along with a Suomy Ruben Xaus replica helmet. Langler had never ridden a street bike in his life, and I don't think he ever rode a dirt bike, either. He wanted to learn to ride and learn about racing, and I offered to tell him everything I knew.

Finally, it was time to get the ball rolling. Before I even looked at flights or hotels, I bought two race tickets online from the Monza Web site. Their site, for the first-timer, was confusing and downright difficult. All these questions of where to sit, paddock passes, parking etc. I printed out the Web page and took it to my Italian friends who have a pizza shop down the street from work, and they assured me I bought the correct tickets.

Time to book hotel! Once again, I emailed Dean for advice on "where to stay" and, as always, he replied with sage advice and a funny story. At this point, I had no idea where we were going to fly in to or anything. I bought the race tickets, and the rest is brown baby food.

So, one Sunday, Langler called up and said he was going to watch the World Superbikes from Qatar and we needed to iron out some trip details. So, we watched the race and decided to fly into Amsterdam for a hazy two-day stay. Or, do we land in Barcelona and get warmer and dryer temps? How about, we do both? Two round-trip tickets were procured for Seattle to Amsterdam to Barcelona. We were rolling! I marked the vacation calendar at work and before long, it was time to pack.

We landed in Barcelona and were met with 75-degree temperatures and sunny skies. We spent a few days walking around the area and seeing some things that some tripped-out artist had made. Mr. A. Gaudi sure left his mark on Barcelona. Makes our modern monoliths look even more sterile and ugly.

So, as time slipped though the first week, we needed to get to Italy! Do we drive? Take a train? Langler rose to the occasion. He fired up his trusty laptop and booked us flights to Milan, along with a car rental, too. He even booked us a hotel in Como and Lugano, Switzerland!

The next day, we were in a taxi and off to the airport. Hours later, we were in a diesel Renault 4-door driving North on the Autostrada heading to Lugano. It was Wednesday and we had no trouble finding this hidden treasure. We parked the car and proceeded to take in the sights and many libations. After dinner, we stumbled upon a great bartender who spoke perfect English and followed MotoGP and World Superbike He made us hand-built martinis by the gallon, and we talked of the all-time greats in motor sports deep into the morning. Wonderful town and people. Not to mention, I could live there. It's that special.

Friday Morning and we left Como heading south to Monza. It was here that we got a lesson in driving in Italy. We'd been dodging bullets the whole trip and then we experienced being lost in the rain, and with a language barrier. When we finally got to Monza, we had intentions of heading to the track for a few hours to get our juices flowing. It took four hours of driving around in circles and the locals wanted to kill us for being charming enough to get them to help our sorry asses.

We found a lady selling antiques in a small shop. She was the classic Italian lady with style, presence and grace. She drew us a map and off we went...in more circles. Meanwhile, it was raining and I was pissed at the thought of coming all this way only to have it rain on race day. Langler was grinding his molars into dust as we looked for the hotel...in vain. We finally reached the point where we just needed to park the car, get out and mingle with the locals to find someone fluent in English who could help get us to the hotel (come to find out, we had driven by the hotel about six times).

I spotted a cafe on the corner, so we walked in to order a beer and chat with the employees. When we asked for help on how to get to the hotel and circuit, we had the whole staff trying to help us.

Seeing lost Americana's conversing with six college-aged Italians kids was classic. They wanted to know what Italian racers we liked, what were our favorite bikes. They were gracious kids who were happy to help us

We finished our beers and headed to the hotel. The stress of missing Friday's practice and being lost in the rain took its toll on us (along with the Italian beer). We were exhausted. We needed a great dinner and some rest because, the next day was Saturday and that's when my vacation really began.

We found a great seafood restaurant a few blocks from the hotel with a perfect Italian waitress named Maria who busted her butt to make sure we were taken care of. Dinner was perfect. She packed the leftovers of prosciutto and cheese, and included more bread. She wanted to make sure we didn't get hungry later that night. We stumbled back to the hotel, full and satisfied.

I awoke to sunny skies and pre-race butterflies. I stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the busy street to double-check the clear blue sky and raise my arms in a "V". I am going to Monza...time to roll...Superpole is just 10 hours away. The taxi is waiting below.

We were en route to the circuit in a newer black Mercedes taxi wagon with an older gentleman behind the wheel. He looked like he was dressed for church, and he was sporting some great Italian sunglasses.

He mumbled a few words to us and off we went at full speed. He was passing on the right and left, running stop signs along the way. We arrived like factory techs at the front door of the track. It was only 7 AM, so we walked to the gift shop/coffee area and order coffee and some pastries. We sat down at the tables and just started to take it all in--the people, the history, the bronze statue of a famous Italian car racer, even the coffee. Best cup of coffee I'd had since sipping decaf with Granny circa 1978. I could tell the place was special within the first few sips of coffee and bites of my cheese-filled treat.

We walked towards the Xerox Ducati hospitality tent and got a close-up view of the 999 that Bayliss rides the bejesus out of. We chatted with a Xerox employee (a nauseating corporate stiff with the personality of lunch meat) about Friday's practice, the weather, lap times, etc. I asked him what he does for Ducati Corse and he replied that he sells copiers for Xerox. We then proceeded to the historic section of the famed circuit: the Banking. We sneaked in behind the fence by the Chicane and walked deep into the old section. It reeked of history. Rotten wood posts were buried at the top of the insanely steep banking. Rusted Armco, faded asphalt, big trees 10 feet from the edge. I hope the Milan Car Club or some wealthy Ferrari collector makes sure this section of Monza stays. It's called The Temple for a reason. A place of worship. Holy ground.

Ascari, the famous high-speed chicane was next. We sat up there and watched the first Superbike practice of the day. We got comfortable in the concrete stands as Langler attended his first-ever motorsports event. He was wide-eyed and asking me questions left and right. We zeroed in on #21. Due to the language barrier and the lack of a stopwatch we had no idea how fast the riders were going. We only noticed the very few that looked fast thru Ascari. Bayliss was, by far, pushing the hardest. Pushing so hard that I had concerns of him piling up right in front of me. He would, lap after lap, plow the front tire on the right then, in a superhuman instant, he would snap the big twin over on its left and get perfect drives down the straight to the Parabolica. We walked towards the Parabolica and watched more practice and then made our way to the front straight. Saturday ended with Corser on the pole.

We walked back to the hotel after a full day of sights and sounds. I had a grin 10-feet wide walking back. It's dinnertime and that means more great food and libations (note to self: always save room for dessert).

Sunday: Race Day. Sunny skies greeted us again. Once again, Grandpa with his Persol shades, driving the sport wagon Benz taxi, greeted us at 6.30 AM. He drove even faster today. We sat in the leather backseats giggling at his pace. We entered The Temple and headed to the souvenirs. We bought shirts, decals, books, more great coffee, and we decided at dinner the previous night to watch the races from Ascari. We settled in with sweet anticipation of the day's events. The PA system blared "Eye of the Tiger", and The Final Countdown" had us ready for some racing.

Race 1 and 2: the announcer seemed to be talking faster today. Warm-up lap, then the start! The sounds the bikes make as they hurl down the long straight is amazing. Then, it's silence as they enter the bus stop. Then you hear them spooling up again. Then you finally see the riders at speed heading towards the Ascari. The fans are going wild, with fists pumping and cheering. This is big fun. We could tell thru the announcer and crowd response when someone got passed, but it's very difficult to wade through the Italian language when the only words you recognize are "Troooooy Baaaaaylisssssss" and "Noooooori Haaaaaaagaaaaaaa." The guy sitting behind us knew we were clueless and he offered me translation during the races. He was a Bayliss fan and a great man for sure.

He kept me tuned in throughout the races. A nice couple in their mid 50's who were sitting in front of us had a huge cooler stocked with the finest meats, cheeses, and frosty cold beers. They made us feel right at home as they kept us supplied with sandwiches and cold beer.

Bayliss went on to win both races, and that was the frosting on top of my cake. Troy's post-race burnouts were epic and somewhat dangerous as the crowds ran onto the track while his 999 became engulfed in Pirelli tire smoke. We left the stands with hugs and handshakes from people whose names we didn't even know. We thanked them in our best Italian for making the race special. We walked towards the Corona Media Tent to watch the press conference with a happy Haga and Bayliss, and a bitter Troy Corser. The Italians cheered loudly when Bayliss spoke to the crowd in Italian.

Race weekend was over, and we were spoiled by the park-like setting, the warmth of the sun, and of the locals who we were lucky enough to have met, not to mention seeing my favorite rider win both races that day.

WSBK is still the best value in racing. I hope to see more MotoGP riders in the series for 2008.

I could not have planned a more perfect race weekend. I've set a very high standard for my next international motorcycle race. Molta Gracie Monza, you made a dream come true.

On Monday, we drove to Bologna to pay homage to Ducati. Seeing Bayliss win at Monza on a Ducati-a motorcycle marque that captured my imagination as a kid-was surreal. Then, seeing the history that the Borgo Pengaile factory offered was overwhelming. Foggy, Hailwood, 750 Imola winner, the list went on. As we exited the museum, I noticed the trophy from the previous day's events. Resting proudly on the receptionist's counter, resplendent in Bayliss' fingerprints and the champagne overspray from the podium celebration, I walked over and added my own fingerprints to the trophy. Mission accomplished.

We left the Ducati factory and walked down the street to the closest bar. Surrounded by beer cans from around the globe, we had a delicious dinner of pizza and huge steins of lager. It was a great day.

After Bologna, we headed East to the Adriatic Sea. It was another ocean that I needed to get my feet into, and then check off my list of famous bodies of waters that I've visited. We drove North to Venice and spent the day dodging the tourists and the rain. The pubs offered great protection from both.

The next day, we headed back to Como for a day of rest and eating before we headed back to Barcelona. As I scrolled through my notes and various ramblings, I noticed that I hadn't driven a car at all in Italy. Langler took the reigns from Malpensia airport and never once complained or put us in any danger. He was even kind to the rental car. That, my friends is a true wingman, and it shows the quality human being that he is. I'm lucky to have a friend like him.

We were back in Barcelona, and the town was ablaze in soccer and Formula One. Barcelona had just won some European championship, and the F1 circus had just rolled into town. And with that, it was time to go home with a head full of memories, a camera full of great shots, and too many belly laughs to count.

Who cares what the trip cost? I literally lived a MasterCard commercial. Priceless.