It was early March 2025, a few weeks before my Oklahoma Youth Expo escapade, and I was carving my way back from a work trip in McAlester, Oklahoma, on my BMW F800ST. The motorcycle hummed beneath me, a sleek speed demon eating up Highway 9’s asphalt with every twist of the throttle. After a long day of work, I was wiped out, my brain foggy and my body stiff, but the ride home to Oklahoma City was my decompression chamber. Nestled in my rear tailbag was my 1974 Mamiya RB67 Pro-S, a clunky old warhorse itching to slow me down whether I wanted it to or not.
The BMW and the Mamiya are like a jackrabbit and a stubborn old coonhound. My F800ST zips along, nimble and quick, begging me to lean into corners and hit 70 mph without blinking. The RB67? It’s a plodding beast—slow, methodical, and about as speedy as a turtle crossing a dirt road. One’s built for the chase; the other’s content to sniff every fence post. But I adore them both, and despite my exhaustion, I forced myself to pull over now and then, yank off my gloves, and wrestle the Mamiya out for a few shots. If I didn’t, I’d regret it later, and I wasn’t about to let a good roll of film go to waste.
I’d loaded the camera with Ilford Delta Pro 100, my favorite black-and-white film these days. It’s got fine grain for crisp details, a price that doesn’t sting, and a wide exposure latitude that saves my bacon when I’m guessing at settings. The RB67’s got no light meter—never has—so I whip out my iPhone and use a light meter app to eyeball the exposure. With Delta 100’s forgiveness, I don’t need to be spot-on; the film smooths out my mistakes, turning decent shots into stunners.
Before heading home, I took a detour into Eufaula to visit my parents’ grave—a stop I always make when I’m nearby. It’s a quiet cemetery, tucked off the highway, and pulling up on the BMW feels like stepping into a hush. I miss them both dearly, but this spot brings me peace, a place to stand still and remember. I unpacked the Mamiya, metered my exposure, and framed their headstone, the soft light filtering through the trees. The camera’s deliberate pace matched the moment—click, wind, click—a quiet way to spend time with them through the lens. No rush, just a few frames on the Ilford film to hold onto the stillness before I strapped the camera back on and rode away, a little lighter.
My next stop was near Dustin, where an old Jeep Wrangler sat rusting by the roadside, its faded paint peeling like a sunburn. I kicked down the BMW’s stand, hauled out the Mamiya, and framed it against a backdrop of scrubby trees, the wind tugging at my jacket. Click—advance—click. Slow as a Sunday sermon, but the camera purred perfectly, no hiccups to spoil the mood.
Further along, I rolled into Shawnee and couldn’t resist the Santa Fe Railway Station, a brick beauty from 1904 that’s still standing proud. I parked the bike, stretched my aching legs, and focused the Mamiya carefully, capturing the station’s arched windows glinting in the midday light. Nearby, I spotted an old Santa Fe Railway caboose, weathered red and parked like a relic from a bygone era. The Mamiya nailed it again, the film soaking up every dent and rust spot. By then, my stomach was growling, so I swung by the original Van’s Pig Stand—a Shawnee legend since 1930—for lunch. Over a plate of smoky ribs and a Diet Coke, I couldn’t resist snapping a quick shot of the joint’s neon sign and squat brick facade. The Mamiya stayed steady, its shutter thudding with satisfying precision.
I was dog-tired, my back complaining from the ride and my brain half-asleep, but those stops kept me going. The BMW got me there fast; the RB67 made me pause and look. No people in these shots—I’m a portrait guy at heart, loving the stories in faces—but on this solo haul, I didn’t have the time or juice to chase down subjects. That Jeep, the station, the caboose, and Van’s would do, and the Ilford film turned them into quiet keepers. By the time I pulled into my driveway, I had a roll of Delta 100 I was proud of, a small win over my road-weary self. The camera worked like a dream this trip—no jams, no fuss—just a faithful old hound trotting along beside my jackrabbit ride. Too bad it’d turn ornery at the livestock show later, but for now, I was content with my roadside haul.
