The 50/75 Rule: Lessons From My Father and the Road

My dad’s the reason I caught the riding bug, he’s the one who showed me that two wheels and an open road can cure just about anything.

Back when we used to ride together, he introduced me to what he called the “50/75 Rule,” a little gem of road wisdom that’s shaped how I ride to this day. I didn’t really get it at first. In fact, my first big trip with him, a post-Navy run to the BMW rally in Paonia, Colorado, had me questioning his sanity. We’d barely gotten out of Albuquerque when he pulled into some tiny café like we’d been on the road all day. I gave him that “you’ve got to be kidding me” look, and he just grinned and said, “Son, let me tell you how I ride.” That’s when the 50/75 Rule was born, and it changed the way I think about long-distance riding forever.

We wandered into the kind of small-town café that every rider dreams of stumbling across, red and white checkered tablecloths, a window that looked straight into the kitchen, and a waitress who seemed to know everyone in the place by name. She told us to sit wherever we liked, and before we could even settle in, she was back with two mugs, asking if we wanted coffee. Of course, we did.

That’s when my dad smiled and said, “This is why we stopped.”

He went on to explain that motorcycle travel isn’t about chewing up miles or racing to the destination. It’s about the ride itself, the roads, the scenery, the food, and the people you meet along the way. He believed in taking the time to experience the towns we passed through, not just blow by them.

Dad’s routine was simple: skip breakfast, grab a cup of coffee, gear up, and hit the road early. Then, about fifty miles in, start looking for a local café, never a chain. “That’s where the best food and best stories are,” he said. And, well, he wasn’t wrong. The man could strike up a conversation with anyone, especially the waitress, and trust me, he never missed a chance to charm one over a refill of coffee.

As we worked our way through a plate of eggs and bacon that tasted like pure roadside perfection, Dad leaned back, sipped his coffee, and said, “You’ll learn to slow down and take it all in.”

Now, I’d been riding for about six years at that point, so I figured I had a pretty good handle on things. But those words hit me harder than I expected. Up to then, my kind of riding meant commuting to work or ripping through the local twisties with my buddies, full throttle, all grins, and zero common sense.

We weren’t exactly thinking about scenery or pacing; it was more about who could scare themselves the most without ending up in a ditch.

Jerry next to his machine

Sure, I’d done a few long rides before, but they were more like endurance tests than adventures, gas stop, ride, gas stop, repeat. My goal was always to get there as fast as possible, not really caring about what I was blowing past along the way. But sitting in that little café on day one of our trip, listening to Dad talk about the journey instead of the destination, I realized I’d been missing half the fun of motorcycling.  We paid the check, thanked our waitress, and headed back out to the bikes. I remember feeling completely content, a full belly, good coffee, and the kind of conversation that sticks with you. Riding with my dad, getting life and motorcycle lessons at the same time, not a bad way to start the day.

We rolled out onto a quiet two-lane back road, the kind of ribbon of asphalt that winds through open fields and small towns, with the smell of fresh-cut hay and morning dew hanging in the air. About 70 or so miles later, we pulled into a little gas station to top off. It had been a perfect stretch, easy pace, smooth flow, and the kind of peace only found on two wheels.

As we fueled up, I mentioned that we could’ve ridden farther since we both still had plenty of gas. Dad just grinned, the same grin I was starting to realize meant “lesson incoming.” He said, “We’ll be stopping every 70 to 75 miles all day.” Before I could ask why, he lit a cigarette, took a slow drag, and said, “Gives me time to stretch, drink some water, and rest up. You’ll thank me for this on day two and three. ”We spent the rest of the day sticking to Dad’s rhythm, breaks every seventy-five or so miles, and by the time we rolled into a small mountain lodge that evening, it all started to make sense. We unloaded the bikes, checked in, and wandered across the street for dinner and a well-earned adult beverage. I remember thinking how good I felt, not exhausted, not stiff, just that perfect mix of satisfied and relaxed that only a great day of riding can bring.

As I sat there nursing my drink, I glanced over at Dad. He had this quiet, content look on his face, the kind that told me the day had gone exactly how he’d hoped. He said how much he enjoyed riding with me, how great it was to have that time to reconnect. Now, my dad wasn’t the most openly sentimental guy, so hearing that hit me harder than I expected. It truly warmed my heart.

He asked how I felt about the day’s pace, and I told him the truth, I loved it. I wasn’t worn out, I’d actually seen the scenery instead of just blasting through it, and the whole experience felt richer somehow. We both laughed, clinked glasses, and called it a good day. Looking back now, nearly forty years later, I realize that lesson stuck deeper than I ever imagined. The 50/75 Rule wasn’t just about when to stop for breakfast or fuel, it was about savoring the ride, the people, and the moments in between. I still follow that rule every chance I get.

Thanks, Dad.

This is my very first article for On The Level, and I’ll start with a confession, I’ve been a BMWRA member for years… and have never actually owned a Beemer. I know, I know… cue the collective gasp! Trust me, it’s a flaw I’ve come to accept (and I’m working on it).

What I do have is a deep love for motorcycles,  all shapes, all brands, all styles, and an even deeper appreciation for the incredible people who ride them. This community, this passion, and the miles we share together are what make our hobby so special. This is my first article for the BMW Riders Association magazine OTL.