Alright, so someone asked me about the “property of biker vest” the other day, and it got me thinking. It’s not just a piece of clothing, right? There’s more to it, or at least, there should be.
My Own Take on This Vest Thing
I remember getting my first proper vest. Not some fashion thing, but a real, heavy leather one. I saved up for ages. First thing I did? I wanted to make it mine. You know, the whole “property of” deal. I figured that meant slapping a ton of stuff on it straight away. Like, this was my thought process, what a vest needed to scream ‘me’:
- A giant, badass back patch, obviously.
- Patches from every event I’d ever dreamed of going to.
- Something that looked tough, maybe a skull or two, because, well, bikes!
So, I went a bit nuts. Bought a bunch of patches online, some cool-looking, some just random. I was trying to build this instant identity, you know? Like, “Look at me, I’m a serious biker!” I spent a whole weekend figuring out where to sew them, pricking my fingers, the whole deal. Felt pretty proud when I first wore it out. Thought it was the business.
Then, a few weeks later, I was at this local bike meet. Nothing huge, just a bunch of guys hanging out. And there was this older fella, probably riding since before I was born. His vest… man, it was something else. It wasn’t covered in shiny, new patches. It had maybe five or six in total. Each one was faded, worn, some threads loose. The leather itself was creased and softened in ways you just can’t fake. It wasn’t trying to shout anything. It just was.
And it hit me. My vest, with all its brand-new, “look-at-me” stuff, felt kinda… well, silly. Like I’d missed the point. That old guy’s vest? That was his property. Not because he bought it, but because he’d lived in it. Every mark, every patch (or lack thereof) told a story of miles, of weather, of experiences. Mine just told the story of a weekend with a needle and thread and an active eBay account.
So, I actually took a bunch of those patches off. Felt a bit weird at first, like undressing a Christmas tree in January. But then I just started riding in it. A lot. Through rain, sun, long hauls, short trips. It got scuffed. It got rained on and dried out stiff, then softened up again with wear. I added a patch here and there, but only if it meant something real. A rally I actually went to and survived. A small, unassuming club patch from a group of good folks I rode with for a summer.
Now, when I look at my vest, it’s not a statement I bought. It’s more like a journal. The “property of” part isn’t about the name tag I could sew inside. It’s in the way it fits, the way it smells faintly of road and exhaust and maybe a bit of old coffee. It’s mine because we’ve been through stuff together. That’s the real deal, I reckon. Some folks might not get it, they just see an old vest. But for me, that’s what makes it genuinely, undeniably mine.
