There wasn’t really a need for a mechanic suit.

No customer ever requested one. We didn’t identify some gap in the market. And we definitely didn’t say “we couldn’t find the perfect mechanic suit, so we decided to make our own.”

We just love the silhouette.

There’s something about a mechanic suit that feels timeless. It carries the DNA of factory floors, airfields, race paddocks - a style designed for doing. One piece. No excess.

We’ve always been drawn to uniforms like that. Pieces with a history and a job to do.

When we began sketching ours, it wasn’t about reinventing the category. It was about building a version we would actually wear, something rooted in workwear and military utility, but cut and finished in a way that made sense outside its intended environment.

We made it in a 10 oz Japanese cotton herringbone and stone washed it for a worn-in feel. Substantial, but easy. Structured, but not too stiff.

Across the back, chainstitched in script: Rivay Airways.

During the pandemic, when the world felt small and disconnected, we started delivering orders ourselves in our vintage cars. We’d text customers, pull into driveways, leave packages at the door, get caught on Ring cameras. It was simple, probably unnecessary, but it felt human and got us out of the house. “Rivay Airways” became our tongue-in-cheek name for the operation.

The mechanic suit felt like the right place to carry that story forward.

We shot it in Joshua Tree and the surrounding desert. Two versions with two moods.

The natural suit found its setting at a moto track in 29 Palms. The place was empty when we arrived. Wind across the dirt. Old tires stacked and scattered. I walked the track, picked up a few of the abandoned tires, sat on them, just looked around. It felt quiet. The suit worn simply over our Tent Tan henley. Nothing styled, just worn.

The navy version told a different story.

We drove out to the unmanned 29 Palms airfield (used for military training in WWII) and, somewhat unbelievably, found an unlocked gate. Beyond it sat a few defunct planes baking in the sun. One in particular (polished chrome, rivets marching across the fuselage) felt like a plane that would acutally deliver Rivay packages.

We layered the suit differently here. Our blue Japanese oxford underneath, finished with our Italian silk knit tie. Not dressed up in the traditional sense, but reframed. The mechanic suit as uniform, just interpreted through a different lens.

That’s what we’ve come to appreciate most about it.

It’s not about pretending to be a mechanic. It’s about adding something to your wardrobe that stands apart — a piece that supports the hands-on parts of life. Gardening. Travel days. Weekend projects. Early mornings. Long drives.

And when the work is done, keep it on. Wear it out. That’s part of the appeal.

Some pieces are designed to impress. Others are designed to work.

The mechanic suit does both.

Cheers,
Thanks for flying Rivay Airways.