There’s something reassuring about machinery that’s older than your favorite leather jacket yet still stubbornly refuses to retire gracefully to museum quietude. Take, for example, my recent adventure: I loaded up my vintage Mamiya RB67—a camera so large, heavy, and mechanically robust it could double as a motorcycle lift—and pointed my Chevy truck toward the vintage motocross races.
Upon arriving, I dragged the RB67 out, a camera whose weight and clunk factor would make even a Harley-Davidson rider think twice. Its operation involves a ritual as intricate as kick-starting a cantankerous old British single: cock the shutter, flip open the waist-level finder, rotate the hefty film advance lever, and finally press the shutter button—just like an old bike, everything strictly manual, nothing electronic allowed.
My first subject was a beautifully preserved BSA 440 Victor, that iconic British single-cylinder thumper famous for winning races—and infamous for making grown men weep during starting rituals. With my Mamiya, the process felt oddly fitting; both machine and camera required patience, persistence, and a certain stubborn optimism.
Next up was a CZ motocrosser, as Czech as good pilsner and equally temperamental, its carburetor and ignition timed to the whimsical mood swings of a diva soprano. Trying to frame it perfectly in the RB67’s ground-glass finder, upside-down and backwards as usual, gave me a mild dizziness that I suspect early CZ riders often felt after a full moto.
I moved on to the Maicos, those legendary German bikes whose handling made heroes of mere mortals—but whose mechanical quirks kept even factory mechanics awake at night. Photographing these with my Mamiya felt like introducing two old friends: both had long outlived their original planned obsolescence. “Retirement?” they’d scoff, “That’s for appliances.”
Then came a true rarity: a 1967 Matchless 500cc G80 Typhoon, a British brute built for desert racing, its purposeful look and rugged simplicity perfectly echoing the spirit of my massive Mamiya. Not far from it, though distinctly more modern, sat a vibrant green 1975 Kawasaki KX400—fresh enough to mockingly sport plastic fenders but still vintage enough to remind me of the camera’s heyday.
Kawasaki KX400
With each clunk of the shutter, riders and spectators gathered around, attracted by the spectacle of someone actually using equipment that appeared best suited to anchoring a zeppelin. “What kind of megapixels does that thing have?” a young rider asked earnestly, eyeing the giant camera skeptically.
“Zero,” I replied proudly. “But it has plenty of megapounds.”
In a world of instant gratification, digital miracles, and disposable technology, there’s something deeply satisfying about capturing these stalwart machines on film. The BSA, CZ, Maico, and Mamiya—they’re relics of a mechanical age, survivors whose very existence defies common sense and practicality. Just like vintage motocross itself, these bikes and my hefty old camera carry the weight and charm of history, reminding us that sometimes, newer isn’t necessarily better. Especially when heavier, clunkier, and a little obstinate makes for such great company.
