On a Sunday afternoon in May of 1955, a ragtag group of forty people crammed themselves into The Black Swan, a cozy pub in the market town of Leominster, England. They were responding to a letter published in The Bicycle magazine the previous October. Penned by W.H. Paul — a thin, bespectacled man better known to his friends as Bill — the letter asked if the cyclists of the day were only interested in replicating the road-racing feats of Tour de France competitors. Paul, an enthusiast of the great outdoors, wondered if anyone else liked using bikes to explore less trodden paths.

“I have always been a searcher of the remote, wild, and more desolate country, which is to be seen ‘off the beaten track,’” he wrote. “I wonder if the modern lightweight, with its ‘Continental this’ and ‘super that,’ prompts the rider to keep on the billard-table surfaces of modern tarmacs. Nevertheless, I believe there is still a small select circle who love the rough and high ways amongst the mountains of Wales, the Lakes, and Scotland. […] Who then, would care to become a member of The Rough-Stuff Fellowship?”

The response was immediate and positive. A year after the inaugural meeting, the club grew from 40 hardened riders to 160 scattered across the country — and today is 800 members strong, making it the oldest off-road bicycling club in the world. Riders meet on a weekly, if not daily basis to explore every corner of the British countryside and beyond. They shoulder their bikes as they climb up mountains and wade through streams, then hop on them again to ride across rocky dirty paths and through grass-covered fields. “They prefer a far less beaten track – one where no ascent is too steep, no mud too thick, no destination too distant,” Niall Flynn wrote of the group. 

When Volodymyr Zelensky emerged from the voting booth in Kiev last month, he was wearing a dark worsted navy suit and a crisp white t-shirt. It was the biggest night of his life. Over the previous six months, the actor and comedian had been campaigning for the presidential seat in Ukraine. An early frontrunner in opinion polls, Zelensky was expected to win the election handily with over 70% of the votes — and he did. Not long after the polls closed, and with little more than 10% of the votes counted, early results showed Zelensky was coming in for a landslide victory. Incumbent President Petro Poroshenko wrote on Twitter: “We succeeded to ensure free, fair, democratic and competitive elections. I will accept the will of Ukrainian people.”

It was a big night for t-shirts (and a bigger night for Zelensky). About a hundred years after its invention, the t-shirt has gone from being underwear — replacing the union suit, which is the all-in-one undergarment you’ve likely seen in black-and-white cartoons — to an everyday piece of clothing that even presidential candidates can wear on election night. Like chinos, pea coats, and cardigan sweaters, the t-shirt has its roots in the military. Around the turn of the 20th century, the US Navy replaced square-necked, shoulder-buttoning shirts with cropped sleeved undershirts. American seamen wore them while swabbing decks and manning armaments. The shirts were made white (still the garment’s most popular color) for several reasons: white t-shirts are cheap to produce, as they don’t have to be dyed, and they marry well navy uniforms. Besides, since white t-shirts show dirt easily, it was believed they’d instill a sense of discipline and help maintain personal hygiene.

Stuffed shirt traditionalists love to mark the t-shirt as the end of Western civilization — the replacement for collared shirts and, ultimately, the suit. It’s true that t-shirts were initially undergarments that were never meant to be seen, but within my lifetime, they’ve always held the same cool appeal as blue jeans. In the run-up to the United States’ entry into the Second World War, a Sears, Roebuck, and Co. advertisement proclaimed: “You needn’t be in the army to have your own personal t-shirt,” suggesting the quotidian garment had an inherent sense of heroism and machismo. A sweat-soaked, sexually magnetic Marlon Brando wore a white tee when he shouted “Stella!” in the 1951 film adaptation of A Streetcar Named Desire. Virile heartthrob James Dean also sported one in Rebel Without a Cause. People who complain that t-shirts aren’t “proper” miss the point. The t-shirt’s military roots, machismo nature, and ability to rouse elites are exactly the reasons why it feels rebellious (although, a strong case can be made that it’s now just part of a middle-class uniform, losing all of its tough political edge).

Brooks Brothers is having a Mother’s Day promotion where you can earn a free $25 eGift card for every $150+ eGift card you purchase online. Those gift cards are as good as cash, which means you can use them on already-discounted items. The best thing about this promotion? It’s running concurrently with two special sales.

The first is a shirt sale, where you can get a 25% discount when you purchase three or more shirts. The promotion applies to Brooks Brother’s famous oxford-cloth button-downs, which come in solid colors and various types of stripes. Since the company upgraded to its unlined collar a few years ago, the price jumped from about $90 to $140. With the two current promotions, however, the price comes down to $88 — lower than the previous years’ retail. I find light-blue oxford button-downs can be worn with anything described as Ivy, Americana, or even workwear (e.g., suits and sport coats, field jackets, or brands like Engineered Garments). I hesitate to call anything a wardrobe essential, but for me, an OCBD is as close to essential as anything comes.

Brooks Brothers also put their two most iconic loafers on sale: their tassel loafer — which comes in calfskin, shell cordovan, and two shades of brown suede – and their unlined shell cordovan penny loafers (both styles made in the USA by Alden). Those shell cordo pennies are among my favorite shoes. Not only can they be worn with your usual sport coats and flannels, but they can also work in surprisingly contemporary contexts. Kyle at No Man Walks Alone pairs them with jeans, t-shirts, and slim corduroy sport coats. I sometimes wear mine with fatigues and chunky Arans. 

You’ve heard the phrase a million times: “You can have any color as long as it’s black.” In his autobiography My Life & Work, Henry Ford claimed he told his management team in 1909 that, going forward, his best-selling Model T would only be available in one color. But for the first few years of its production, from 1908 to 1913, it wasn’t available in black at all, but rather bullet gray, dark green, midnight blue, and fire engine red. The all-black change didn’t happen until 1914, with the outbreak of World War One. Ford switched to black because of the paint’s low cost, durability, and faster drying time. Paint choices were determined by the chemical industry, which at the time was affected by dye shortages and new nitrocellulose lacquer technologies. The decision had more to do with economics than style.

Cars back then were painted using a process called japanning, which today would be known as baked enamel. “It was first used in the mid-1800s for decorative items imported into America,” says Model T restorer Guy Zaninovich. “A piano has a shiny black surface that almost looks like plastic rather than paint because it’s done with the japanning process. It leaves a tough and durable surface.” Japanning also dries quickly, which was important to the efficiency-obsessed Ford. His plants produced as many as 300,000 cars per year, at a time when competing automakers had a combined production of about 280,000 cars, so shaving minutes off each car’s production time was critical. The catch? Japanning was only available in black. “If japanning worked in hot pink, all Model T’s would have been hot pink,” Zaninovich joked. 

The history of the Model T is just one of the many strange stories of why certain things come in specific colors. Suits, for example, mainly come in navy and gray because, back in the Regency period, men wore navy coats with cream-colored breeches. Regency blue eventually gave way to Victorian black by the mid-19th century, but the norm for wearing contrasting trousers remained. The suit, as defined by a coat worn with matching trousers, wasn’t typical in London until the end of the 19th century. Until then, the suit was only worn for sport and leisure, mostly in the countrysides. No proper gentleman would ever wear it to town.

“Polo” is the most confusing word in men’s fashion. When Brooks Brothers put their new button-down collar on sport shirts in the early 1900s, they marketed them as polo shirts. The tan, double-breasted overcoat popular with Ivy Style aficionados is called a polo coat. In Britain, the turtleneck sweater is sometimes called a polo jumper. Ralph Lauren named his mainline Polo. And for some reason, the tennis shirt is called a polo even though it’s more likely to be worn to play golf.

In the early 20th century, tennis was a sport of strict dress rules. Women played in blouses and full-length skirts; men wore cream-colored, cricket cloth trousers and full-sleeved, white oxford shirts, typically with the sleeves rolled halfway up to the elbows. Only a man of means could afford to indulge in a country club pursuit that came with a large laundry bill. Tradition-bound sportsmen found a snobby pleasure in sweating it out in stuffy, all-white uniforms. So when French player René Lacoste came onto the courts in 1927 with a short-sleeved shirt, he was responsible for a minor cause célèbre.

To be sure, Lacoste didn’t invent the polo. First seen on the French Riveria about two years earlier, it was taken up by fashion-conscious British players before getting the stamp of approval by young Americans on the courts of Palm Beach. But when Lacoste won the US National Championships that year — and several titles since — he helped popularize the style. In 1933, he partnered with a knitwear manufacturing entrepreneur Andrew Gillier to produce la chemise Lacoste, a lightweight, breathable piqué-cotton pullover with an unstarched collar, a three-button placket, and comfortable short sleeves. Known as the L.12.12, the shirt isn’t stiff, but it has rectitude. Tennis, after all, is often referred to as the “most genteel of sports,” so the tennis shirt – or polo — is in many ways the most genteel of sportswear.

Spring is the season for songbirds and meaningless baseball, cool mornings and warm afternoons, but for people who love clothes, it’s also the worst time of the year. Spring clothes are often less interesting. There fewer opportunities to layer. The cuts reveal more than conceal, and few of us look good naked. Whereas dressing for winter can be a paint-by-numbers exercise, dressing for spring is more like trying to solve a puzzle. How do you dress well, but also comfortably?

It always takes me a while to switch wardrobes this time of year, but I often go back to the same things – breathable tailoring, button-down shirts, and loafers. For casualwear, it’s usually a workwear styled jacket and some raw denim jeans (gotta get those fades). I also like bolder shirts nowadays with unusual collars, and have even been embracing things such as graphic tees. If you’re looking for some early spring inspiration, here are some things I’ve been thinking about.

MY KIND OF FUN SHIRT

Of all the style personalities online, few inspire me as much as Yukio Akamine, a Japanese men’s style consultant and clothing designer. Like many men of his generation, Akamine went into the clothing trade in the 1960s, right around the time Japanese youths were picking up button-down collars and Levi’s 501s. Akamine was one of the young men enamored with classic style, so he decided to make a career out of it. Over the years, he’s helped translate British, American, and Italian style for a Japanese audience. In the 1970s, he had a clothing brand called Way Out, which was managed under his umbrella company Trad. He’s consulted for United Arrows and provided personal styling services for executives. He even played a pioneering role in Japan’s Italian restaurant boom in the early ‘90s, when he oversaw Tokyo’s Il Boccalone and La bis Boccia, two restaurants for Tuscan cuisine. 

If Akamine’s style feels cinematic, it’s because he developed his eye by watching old films. In interviews, he’s talked about his love for movies starring American actors such as Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart, or ones directed by Italian filmmakers such as Federico Fellini, Roberto Rossellini, and Luchino Visconti. Consequently, his style is a multicultural soup of English, Italian, and French influences. He wears suits and sport coats from Liverano, ties from Drake’s, shirts from Charvet, and shoes from John Lobb. His jackets have a shoulder line that’s soft and sloping, but also slightly extended to give his frame a flattering V-shaped figure. The trousers are trim; the overcoats generously sized. The shirt collars are long enough such that the points neatly tuck behind his jacket’s lapels.

As conservative as his style may seem, Akamine’s outfits are full of personality. Knits are layered on top of each other and socks are worn to match dress shirts. Some of his single-breasted jackets even have both patch pockets and peak lapels (a daring combination). Plus, there are those deep, deep two-inch cuffs. On most men, these things would seem affected, but on Akamine, they look so good and natural. Whether it’s because of his handsome face or age, I don’t know. I’ll give them a try when I’m in my 70s so I can at least tell if you if it’s the latter.