My career path has taken me to a new position in scenic and perplexing Boulder, Colorado. Right at the base of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains, it is the home to the University of Colorado, the JonBenet Ramsey murder house, and where Mindy McConnell harbored an illegal alien for five years, I admit this city has me scratching my head.
Now as college towns go, Boulder is pretty much the same as Austin, Texas. Sans the humidity, and the self-righteous inclination of being Texan that all Texas cities embrace. Boulder possesses the same left-leaning green, outdoorsy, dare I say it “hippy” sensibilities. This is mixed with the extreme wealth of massive corporate headquarters, and the university with it’s drunk kids (wearing pajama pants at one in the afternoon) sprinkled with Prius driving university professors. This makes me want to experience the Prius section of the local Toyota showroom. A sea of tweed jackets adorned with elbow patches. “I’m sorry sir, city law mandates that all cars must be sold with bike racks, it’s what they come with.” The haggard salesperson would say. “Well. I see.” Says the tweed jacket. “I am from a place where this isn’t a requirement and we don’t end our sentences in prepositions.”
I will come right out and say that I love Austin, Texas. With my past interactions with Boulder, I am pretty much the right candidate for its unique quirkiness. The most expensive item of clothing I own are my Solomon trail running shoes, at any point in my life I’d rather be on my mountain bike, and I too spend my days wandering around the town in a red hunting hat.
What I’m scratching my head about this week is the empowered bicyclists and perderites. Sorry, not empowered. Jerkish. As a bicyclist and pedestrian myself, I love the separated bike lanes and protected lights to help keep everyone safe, yet there seems to be a level of dogmatic hatred of cars that is embraced in this environment. Maybe it's due to the sadness of having to finally cut off their yellow wristband? I have not received so many dirty looks, fist shakes, or “fuck you’s” since my days in the Mormon Church. Bicyclists hate cars in Boulder. I just smile and nod, knowing that my Solomon trail running shoes are way more expensive then theirs, and I'll never have to cut off a cheap symbolic wristband of a fallen idol.