How the Barbour cracked America

I own a motorcycle riding jacket that is unabashedly a fashion piece. It contains armour made of a space-age material that hardens on impact but that is hidden away. The outside is constructed of ‘pull up leather’ which was tanned in such a way that the jet-black colour artificially fades in places that see a lot of motion, like the cuffs. With its quilted shoulders and sharp angles, the jacket suggests a history of ownership dating back to the café racers of the 1960s, despite only being five years old. Although it looks cool as hell and helps keep me safe, I always feel a bit sheepish wearing the thing. ‘Motorcycle rider cosplay’ is what I sometimes call its forced authenticity. An old friend had another take: ‘It’s cool that it has a history, even if that history isn’t yours.’

On the other hand, I never feel sheepish when I wear my Barbour coat.