Travis Brommerich Obituary: I haven’t cried in a long time, but this one hurts deeper than words can even begin to describe. Travis Brommerich, my friend, my riding buddy, my brother, my family—you left this world far too soon, and the void you leave behind is as wide as the roads you loved to ride. When I got that call last night… man, my heart just sank. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. You were just here, cracking jokes, devouring that Friday night pizza, making everyone around you laugh so hard it hurt. You were in your zone, like always—lightening the mood, keeping things positive, being the glue for so many of us. How could it be that in just a blink, you were gone?
Travis, you were the kind of guy who could walk into a room and shift the energy completely. You always knew when someone was struggling—even if they didn’t say a word—and you’d make it your mission to put a smile on their face. It wasn’t forced, it wasn’t fake. It was just who you were. That big heart, that infectious laugh, those corny jokes you were so proud of, the way you’d never let someone sit in silence when they needed a friend—you were a rare soul. One of the realest.
I remember vividly when I was going through the hardest time of my life, back in 2020 when I lost my mom. I didn’t know how to process it, didn’t even want to talk to anyone. But you didn’t let me fall. You sent me those messages out of the blue—short and simple but filled with so much meaning. “You’re not alone, bro,” you’d say. Or “She raised a good one, I hope you know that.” Those words kept me going more than you’ll ever know. You picked me up when I was at my lowest. And I know I’m not the only one you did that for.
You lived your life wide open, just like the throttle on your bike. You had that deep love for the ride—feeling the wind, the freedom, the peace that only a rider knows. And damn, you were good at it. Every curve, every mile, every sunrise you chased down with that unmistakable grin on your face—those are the memories I’ll hold tight to. You once said that riding was therapy, and now I understand. The road was your sanctuary, and you shared that with so many of us.
You weren’t just a rider though. You were family. Maybe not by blood, but definitely by bond. You were someone I could always count on—for a laugh, for an honest talk, for a cold Miller Light on a summer night. You didn’t just make time for people, you made people feel like they mattered. And in a world that moves too fast, that’s a rare kind of kindness. That’s something eternal.
Travis, I can’t wrap my head around the fact that we’ll never hear your voice again, never laugh at your goofy stories, never gear up together and hit the road like we always talked about. We were supposed to have more rides. More late-night gas station pit stops. More times sitting on the tailgate, talking about life. But I take comfort in knowing that somewhere up there, you’re still riding. Tires fresh, Miller Light cold, sun on your back. And I’ll be damned if I don’t meet you there one day, brother.
This isn’t the kind of news anyone ever wants to get—“Motorcycle accident.” Words that feel like a punch in the gut. You were full of life just yesterday, and now we’re all left to carry the weight of this loss. But even in our grief, there’s gratitude. Because we got to know you. To laugh with you. To ride with you. To call you our friend, our brother.
Stoddard lost a good one. First Supply lost a hell of a worker. And we—your people—lost a light. But your memory, your legacy, your laughter… none of that is going anywhere. You’ll ride with us in every mirror glance, every throttle twist, every time we raise a cold one in your honor. You’re etched in the stories we’ll keep telling, in the moments we’ll never forget.
You were Gang Green for life. Loyal as they come. And now, you’re GBNF—Gone But Not Forgotten. A phrase that cuts deep, but one we’ll carry proudly because you earned that kind of remembrance. You left your mark, Travis. Not just in the things you did, but in who you were. And that’s a legacy no accident can ever erase.
We’ll honor you by living louder, laughing harder, and loving more fully—just like you always did. We’ll check on each other, we’ll keep the community tight, we’ll take care of the ones you loved. And every time we gear up, you’ll be with us—helmet in hand, that wild grin on your face, ready to ride into the horizon.
Rest easy, brother. Ride free. Wherever you are now, I hope the skies are clear, the road is endless, and the music’s just loud enough to make you smile. We’ll miss you like hell, but we’ll carry you with us, always. Until we meet again—keep that Miller Light cold, the tires fresh, and the engine rumbling. Rest In Peace, Travis Brommerich. You were one of the good ones. And we’ll never forget you. Gang Green For Life Ride in peace, my brother.
