Lately, my old-man motorcycle leather jacket has been getting a lot of attention. It’s funny how an item tied to a nearly forgotten past can resurface and bring its memories back to life. Every time I wear it, the compliments give me an opportunity to revisit its story.
My ex-boyfriend was a true fashion enthusiast—talented, sensitive to garments, and deeply immersed in the world of designers like Maison Margiela, Dries Van Noten, and Comme des Garçons. I still remember when he found this heavy, battered motorcycle jacket at Mama Loves You Vintage on Queen Street, back when the shop had just opened nearly a decade ago. The lining was already broken, but he saw something in it.
Later, he scrawled across it with a white oil pen, writing either his brand name or perhaps just his observation of the times: "Narcissistic Generation." On the right sleeve, he boldly declared, "I hate those fucking stupid fashion bloggers' style," which, honestly, I agreed with at the time—it was the era of minimalism, when everyone at Fashion Week was wearing Vans Old Skools with black uppers and white stripes. On the left sleeve, another statement: "You dress like shit, so fuck you." At age 30, I’ll admit, those slogans feel a little aggressive. But I still admire the raw energy of his youth—after all, a little attitude is essential to great style.
After he moved away, the jacket somehow stayed with me. For years, I rarely wore it, but this winter, it’s become my go-to. I’ve been stopped on the street, at cafés, even at an ATM—compliments flying my way. Maybe it’s the cut. Maybe it’s the writing. Maybe it’s my aura. A fashion kid near the AGO even took my picture while I was grabbing a morning coffee before a visa appointment. A passing trucker simply nodded and said, "Nice jacket." Whatever the reason, I get it—this is real, heavy-duty leather, the kind that actually keeps you warm. No wonder bikers wear them.
I often forget what’s written on the jacket until someone points it out, leaving me momentarily embarrassed, scrambling to clarify that I didn’t write those words. But then I stop myself—have I really lost my edge? No, no. If anything, I’ve only become grumpier and more judgmental about fashion. How could I be embarrassed by something so personal, so meaningful?
At one point, I thought about letting the jacket go. But in the end, I couldn’t. I can’t believe I’ve had it for nearly a decade. It’s funny how certain pieces become extensions of us. There are clothes I never wear but still can’t part with. Every time I gather things for donation, I inevitably find myself pulling some back out of the bag, deciding to keep them just a little longer.
So, I wanted to write this as a tribute to this jacket—this piece of history I wear on my back. Every time I put it on, it empowers me. And I love the lingering mystery… Maybe, just maybe, it really did belong to a biker once. Hopefully, he didn’t sweat too much.
And, of course, thanks to my fashion mentor for this piece.