The Airport Tracksuit

A Love Letter to Practicality and My Inner Russian Mobster

Once upon a time—when people still dressed like grown-ass adults to board a plane—I used to rock a jacket and tie to the airport. A crisp button-down, polished shoes, looking like I had somewhere important to be. I enjoyed it. I liked the ritual of dressing with intention, of presenting myself to the world like someone who had his shit together.

But those days are dead. Killed off by the slow, inevitable decay of human standards, the rise of pajama-wearing travelers, and my own willingness to lean into comfort. These days, I board flights dressed like a guy who either owns a chain of car washes or launders money through them. And you know what? I have zero regrets.

The Gospel of the Tracksuit

Let’s talk about the airport tracksuit—a misunderstood masterpiece of travel attire. First, it’s functional as hell. No belt, no metal, no unnecessary accessories to trigger a TSA cavity search. I breeze through security like I’m bribing my way past a checkpoint in St. Petersburg.

Then there’s the temperature control. Airplanes are fickle beasts. One minute you’re roasting like a rotisserie chicken, the next you’re trapped in an airborne meat locker. A light tracksuit jacket is the perfect fix—zip it up, zip it down, problem solved. Unlike the poor bastard in 22B today, whose suit took the full force of a spilled cup of coffee, my black tracksuit just absorbed the hit like a champ. A quick wipe, and I was good as new. Try that with your fancy wool blazer.

Dignity in a Two-Piece Set

Now, don’t get it twisted—I’m not out here advocating for full-blown airport slobbery. I will never be the guy flying in flannel pajama pants and a hoodie that looks like it survived a house fire. The line must be drawn somewhere.

A tracksuit, at least, is a set. It’s coordinated. It suggests intention, even if that intention is to look like I might own a gold chain and a thick accent. It’s what happens when comfort and effort shake hands.

The Death of Dressing Up (and Why I Don’t Care Anymore)

There was a time when airports felt like places of purpose. When people dressed like they were stepping into a chapter of their own adventure. But the world has shifted. Air travel has become a cattle call, a race to the bottom in both ticket prices and dress codes. So if I’m going to be wedged into a too-small seat, clutching my overpriced airport bottled water, I might as well be comfortable.

I’ll always admire the guy who still puts on a blazer and polished shoes for a flight. Respect. But for me? Those days are long gone. I have found my uniform, and I am not looking back.

The tracksuit wins. Always.