Bollé El Borracho sunglasses


For more than 100 years, U.S. shades maker Bollée; has been the go-to company for sport enthusiasts looking for two things: (a) high-quality, sturdy, sun-slaying eyewear that's ideally matched to their pursuit and (b) having all that without sacrificing an ounce of cool. Bollée;'s new Dirty 8 line is all about living at this confluence: The company dubs these frames "fashletic"—fashion working in perfect harmony with athleticism.

Bollé El Borracho sunglasses

Bollé El Borracho sunglasses

From this spring into summer, I've spent every sunshiny day with a pair of these plastered comfortably to my face. This one is called El Borracho—"the Drunk"—and the Bollée; catalog recommends it for the next time you're in Tijuana. Indeed, in the $120 brushed-aluminum model I tested (available in prescription for $198), the combination of cool smoke-colored, polarized lenses; understated, clean lines merging the thin frames with the weightier temples; and the touch of Peter Fonda badness in the overall shape would serve well for any Mexican movie star.
I don't look even remotely like Gael Garcíe;a Bernal—something my wife expresses frequent dismay about—but I can always pretend. Better yet, I can slap these four-season frames on and be ready for any sport that doesn't require banging your head against people or objects. Opt for the brushed-aluminum version (the gold and chrome versions, at $20 less, offer the same 100 percent UVA/UVB protection but aren't polarized) and you'll get all the high definition you need for the lazier, wetter sports: spring skiing, fishing, or drifting around the bay in a kayak. Looking ahead to rafting down the Rio Grande, I do wish the El Borracho came with the Thermogrip rubber temples found on many of Bollée;'s frames, but slippage hasn't been a big problem, and the spring hinges allow me to push them around without fear of reprisal.
But my favorite low-impact activity? Driving around Santa Fe in my biodiesel-powered Jetta, weaving at not necessarily judicious speeds between the moms in minivans, the geezers in Escalades, and the inevitable train of Subaru wagons plastered with NO WAR! stickers that, in about half the cases, have been reconfigured as END WAR! stickers. It doesn't matter that I wasn't born with the seductive Latin mug of Garcia Bernal; wearing the El Borracho, I need only give a quick glance at every slowpoke driver—the one that says "Don't you have anywhere to get to?"—and, don't you know, for one fleeting second those soccer moms think they're being passed by Che Guevara. $120;

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