You may have seen him before. His chamois is for café stools, not bike saddles. His trail running shoes never see the trail. His SUV is kitted out with a cargo rack and a clean, never-used axe. If he lived in a major city, he’d wear gobs of hair product and perhaps some eyeliner. There, he’s a metrosexual.
In Boulder we have our own brand of poseur: the mountainsexual. In lieu of Prada, he sports prAna. He substitutes Pearl Izumi for Gucci, Assos for Armani, Arc’Teryx for Ralph Lauren. You’ll see him strutting in Carhart overalls and Timberland boots that have not, and will not, be used for anything that even simulates labor, unless you count yelling into a Blue Tooth-enabled cell phone or typing on a Mac at a wifi café.
The mountainsexual is the guy who buys a pro’s old racing jersey from eBay store TheProsCloset. Not that anyone is fooled by his Lycra-clad flab, but perhaps the mountainsexual believes he gets away with it, given that his untoned legs are smoothly shaven. His weekend is a Tour de Frappiccino, sprinting from stoplights on his carbon-fiber steed with the surge of his last caffeinated blast en route to his next.
As a man living in Boulder, I admit to wanting to look the part. But I’ve learned that personal authenticity is paramount in a town full of mountain hotties. A guy who builds a false pretense, trying to look faster, stronger and more rugged than he really is, risks emasculation and humiliation at the hands of Boulder’s faster, stronger, and sometimes even more rugged women.
So to the mountainsexuals of Boulder, I pose this question: What happens when that gorgeous girl who turned her head at your top-of-the-line Colnago actually wants to go for a ride? Or invites you skate skiing at Eldora? Just something to think about, my friend.
—Adam W. Chase
