We have a factory overseas. They make good products. The price is significantly lower. Production runs smoother. Communication is straightforward because we've worked with them for years.

So when we decided to develop the Enzo Jogger—a seamless, perfectly-washed classic jogger—the easy choice was obvious: send it overseas, get competitive pricing, deliver it to you faster and cheaper.

We didn't make the easy choice.

We chose to make the Enzo in Los Angeles. Where everything costs more, takes longer, and requires us to physically run around the garment district solving problems in real-time. Where we mill our own fabric, develop our own washes, and control every step from raw material to finished product.

We thought we knew what we were doing. Between our team, we have decades of garment manufacturing experience. We've launched lines, managed production, navigated the chaos of LA's textile ecosystem.

The Enzo Jogger reminded us that in the garment business, there's always something.

Why LA? Why the Hard Way?

Los Angeles wasn't always just Hollywood and beaches. For decades, it was the beating heart of American garment manufacturing. The garment district hummed with activity—fabric mills, cutting rooms, sewing facilities, dye houses, finishing labs. Skilled workers from every corner of the world brought techniques from their home countries and built something together.

Then most of it left. Chasing cheaper labor overseas, brands moved production. Factories closed. Skills disappeared. An entire ecosystem that took decades to build unraveled in years.

But it didn't die completely. It just got quieter. Smaller. The mills, cut-and-sew shops, laundries, and pattern makers who remained adapted, survived, and kept the craft alive.

We wanted to be part of bringing it back. Not because of nationalism or romanticized notions of "Made in USA," but because LA manufacturing represents something we believe in: community over convenience, quality over quantity, relationships over transactions.

Making the Enzo in LA meant we could walk into the mill and adjust the fabric blend. Drive to the pattern maker and work through fit issues in person. Stand in the laundry watching wash tests and problem-solve on the spot. It meant building relationships with the people who actually make our products—people from all backgrounds, races, and experiences, united by the common goal of creating something excellent.

It also meant we could prove that local manufacturing can still work if you're willing to put in the effort and accept smaller margins.

The Seamless Construction Challenge

Most joggers take the easy route: side seams. You cut two panels, stitch them together, add pockets, and call it done. It's the standard construction method because it's forgiving—if your pattern isn't perfect, the seam hides a multitude of sins.

We wanted seamless construction. No side seams means cleaner lines, better drape, more comfort against your skin. It also means your pattern has to be absolutely perfect because there's nowhere to hide mistakes. The fabric has to wrap the body in one continuous piece from waist to ankle.

Sounds simple in theory. In practice, it became a masterclass in humility.

Our pattern maker became simultaneously our best friend and our nemesis. We spent weeks running between our sample maker and factory, fine-tuning millimeters that make the difference between a jogger that fits and one that bunches in weird places.

The knee needed to track properly when you bend your leg. The taper had to be gradual enough to look modern without being so aggressive you can't get your foot through. The rise had to work for different body types without looking like parachute pants. The crotch—always the hardest part of any pant pattern—needed to sit right without creating excess fabric or pulling uncomfortably.

Each adjustment meant new samples. Each sample meant more time, more fabric, more rounds of "close, but not quite." We went through five major pattern revisions and countless minor tweaks. Pattern adjustments that on paper looked like they'd solve the problem sometimes created new ones we hadn't anticipated.

The seamless construction also meant we couldn't rely on side seam adjustments during production. If something was off, we couldn't just take in a seam—we had to go back to the pattern, adjust, cut new samples, test again.

But when we finally nailed it—when we pulled on a pair that fit exactly right, with clean lines and perfect drape—all those weeks of running around LA made sense.

The Wash Saga: A Study in Controlled Chaos

If the pattern was challenging, the wash process was outright brutal.

We started with PFD fabric—Prepared for Dye. Basically blank canvas cotton fleece that we could finish however we wanted. The plan was to offer both garment-dyed colors for rich, saturated tones and pigment-dyed options for that lived-in, vintage feel that only gets better with age.

Garment dyeing is temperamental but manageable. You dye the finished garment, it shrinks predictably, and colors come out deep and even. We dialed that in after a few rounds of testing.

Pigment dyeing? That's where our laundry partner started giving us the look. You know the one—the "you want us to do what?" look.

The Pigment Dye Problem

Pigment dye sits on the surface of the fabric rather than penetrating the fibers like traditional dye. This creates beautiful, uneven fading and an incredibly soft hand feel. The color ages naturally, getting better with every wash. It's the difference between a jogger that looks new forever and one that develops character over time.

It's also inconsistent as hell.

Temperature variations change the outcome. Wash time affects color depth and fade pattern. The tumbling process can create streaking or patchiness if you're not careful. Chemical ratios need to be precise. And here's the kicker: what works on ten sample pieces doesn't always scale to a full production run.

We developed a wash recipe we loved. The perfect amount of fade. The right broken-in texture. Colors that looked intentionally vintage without looking washed-out or splotchy. We tested it multiple times on samples. It worked beautifully.

Then we sent the first production run to the laundry.

Everything fell apart.

Colors came back too light in some loads, too dark in others. The fade pattern that looked perfectly uneven on samples looked just plain uneven—and not in the good way—on production pieces. Some joggers had beautiful vintage character. Others looked like they'd been through a car wash with the windows down.

Back to the laundry. Adjust the chemical ratios. Adjust the temperatures. Adjust the agitation cycles and wash duration. Test. Review. Fail. Adjust again.

Our laundry partner deserves a medal for patience. They'd been in business for decades, seen every kind of wash request, and even they admitted the pigment dye was giving them trouble. The problem wasn't their expertise—it was the inherent unpredictability of the process combined with the small batch sizes we were running.

Large brands can afford inconsistency across thousands of units—it averages out. When you're making smaller runs, every batch matters. We needed consistency without losing the character that made pigment dye worth the hassle in the first place.

It took weeks of testing. Dozens of trial runs. Constant communication between us, the laundry, and the factory. Slowly, painfully, we dialed it in. Not perfect—pigment dye will never be perfectly consistent—but controlled. Intentional. The right kind of uneven.

The Damage Report: Manufacturing's Hidden Tax

Here's what nobody tells you about making garments in small runs in LA: the damage rate can be brutal.

We mill our own fabrics to control quality, weight, and hand feel. That's our fabric getting knitted, dyed if needed, and finished. Then it goes to our cut-and-sew facility for pattern cutting and construction. Then to the laundry for washing and finishing. Each handoff is an opportunity for something to go wrong.

Fabric arrives with flaws from the mill—it happens, even with good partners. A knitting error creates a hole. A dye lot comes out slightly off. Pieces get damaged during cutting. Stitching errors create seconds that can't be sold. The wash process is particularly unforgiving—if temperatures spike, colors can run. Zippers can distort under heat and agitation. Seams can pucker if the fabric shrinks unevenly.

We factored in normal damage rates based on our experience. What we got was above normal. Way above.

Stacks of perfectly constructed joggers ruined by a wash cycle that ran too hot. Fabric that developed small holes during the tumbling process. Colors that came out inconsistent enough that we couldn't sell them. Pieces where the seamless construction didn't survive the aggressive pigment wash.

Each damaged piece represents money lost and timeline extended. You can't just order 100 joggers and expect 100 sellable units. You order 130, hope for 100 good ones, and pray the damage doesn't spike higher than expected.

When damage rates climbed, we had two choices: accept lower-quality pieces to hit our numbers, or eat the cost and maintain our standards. We chose the latter. Every time.

It meant smaller profit margins. Longer production timelines. More stress. But it also meant every Enzo Jogger that makes it to you passed multiple quality checks and survived a manufacturing process that wasn't kind to anything less than perfect construction.

"There's Always Something": The Reality of Experience

The garment industry has this saying: "There's always something."

Doesn't matter how experienced you are. Doesn't matter how dialed-in your processes seem. Something will go sideways. A new fabric behaves differently than expected. A laundry gets new equipment and your carefully developed wash recipe needs complete recalibration. Your trusted pattern maker retires and the replacement interprets measurements slightly differently.

We went into the Enzo project with decades of combined manufacturing experience. We'd launched lines, managed overseas production, worked with factories across LA's garment district. We knew the pitfalls. We'd solved these problems before.

And we still got humbled.

But here's the thing about experience: it doesn't prevent problems. It gives you the tools to solve them when they inevitably appear.

We knew which questions to ask when washes came back wrong. We understood how to communicate pattern adjustments to our sample maker in ways that got us closer to the solution faster. We knew when to push our manufacturing partners and when to trust their expertise and adjust our expectations.

When the pigment dye wasn't working, we didn't panic—we methodically tested variables until we isolated the issue. When the seamless pattern created unexpected fit problems, we went back to basics and rebuilt from a solid foundation rather than trying to patch the problem.

Experience meant we could stay calm when production timelines slipped and damage rates spiked. We'd been here before. Not with this exact product, but with the chaos of manufacturing in general. We knew it would eventually come together if we stayed persistent and maintained our standards.

The Enzo took longer than planned. Cost more than we budgeted. Created more headaches than we'd like to admit. But we kept at it because we knew the end result would be worth it.

The Moment It All Came Together

Somewhere around the fifth wash test, covered in fabric swatches and slightly delirious from driving back and forth across LA, we pulled on a pair of Enzos that finally nailed it.

Seamless construction that actually fits. Clean lines without bulk. The pattern tracked perfectly—knees in the right place, taper gradual and intentional, rise comfortable without excess fabric. The pigment dye had that perfect broken-in look—faded in all the right places, soft hand feel, colors that looked vintage without looking washed out.

The fleece weight was exactly right. Substantial enough to feel premium and durable, but light enough for LA weather. Not too thick, not too thin. The kind of weight that works year-round.

The drawstring didn't require a physics degree to tie. The pockets sat where your hands naturally fall. The ankle taper looked modern without being restrictive. Every detail we'd obsessed over—the ones that caused arguments and extra sample rounds—they all worked together.

We stood there in the warehouse, wearing joggers that had taken months of pattern revisions, wash failures, damaged samples, and more trips across LA than we could count. And it all made sense.

This is what we wanted to bring back. A classic jogger silhouette done right. Seamless construction. Perfectly executed washes. Made in Los Angeles with fabric we milled ourselves and relationships we built personally.

Could we have made this easier on ourselves? Absolutely. Use pre-dyed fabric instead of developing custom washes. Add side seams instead of wrestling with seamless patterns. Outsource to a factory that handles everything and doesn't ask questions. Send it overseas where costs are lower and damage rates more predictable.

But that's not what we wanted to make. We wanted to prove that you could bring back a classic piece, manufacture it in LA, control every step of the process, and still offer it at a price that doesn't require a second mortgage.

What the Enzo Represents

The Enzo Jogger is more than just sweatpants. It's proof that LA manufacturing can still work. That quality and value aren't mutually exclusive. That you can choose community over convenience and still build something commercially viable.

Every pair represents relationships with our mill, our cut-and-sew facility, our laundry, our pattern maker. People from different backgrounds, different experiences, different parts of the world—all working toward the common goal of making something excellent.

It represents choosing superior quality over unsustainable quantity. Making fewer pieces but making them right. Accepting smaller margins to keep production local and relationships direct.

The Enzo reminds us why we do this work. Not for the easy wins, but for the satisfaction of solving hard problems and creating something we're genuinely proud of. For the relationships built along the way. For being part of reigniting LA's garment manufacturing community, one piece at a time.

Through the process, we reignited our passion for designing and creating. From milling fabric to pattern making to cutting and sewing to washing and finishing—we controlled every step, solved every problem, and learned (or re-learned) why garment manufacturing is both humbling and rewarding.

We made lasting friendships with the people who helped bring the Enzo to life. We watched our community come together for one common purpose: to create something in superior quality instead of quantity.

Welcome Back the Classic

The Enzo Jogger: months of running around LA's garment district, dozens of damaged samples, countless wash tests, more pattern revisions than we care to count, and one very patient laundry partner.

All so you can pull on a pair of joggers that just work.

Seamless construction. Pigment-dyed character that gets better with age. Made in Los Angeles. Built to last. Priced to be accessible.

This is the Enzo. Welcome back the classic.