Bad Date #2: The Bicycle Incident—Why Club Chemistry Doesn't Always Translate

There’s a reason people say:

“Don’t expect a relationship from someone you meet at a club.”

A few years ago, I went out to a popular Latin club with my roommate. That’s where I met him. We were dancing, vibing, and after a few drinks and forgotten conversations, we exchanged numbers. The attraction was definitely there—physically, at least.

A few days later, I invited him over to hang out with me and my roommate. He said he lived about 20 minutes away. I figured it wouldn’t take long.

An hour passed.
Still no sign of him.

Then finally—a knock at the door.

He had arrived.
I asked, “How did you get here?”
He said, “I rode my bike.”

I laughed and said, “Where’d you park your motorcycle?”

He answered:

“No… like, my bicycle. It’s locked to the stairwell.”

I opened the door.
Sure enough—there it was, in all its two-wheeled glory.

Turns out, he had taken the bus most of the way, then used his bicycle for the last stretch. To be fair, he explained that he was recently divorced and his ex got the car in the settlement. I tried to brush it off and give him the benefit of the doubt.

But then we started talking. And by “we,” I mean he started talking.
Nonstop.
And every word came with a side of flying spit.

Gross.

Being the nice person I am, I endured the verbal sprinkler system and let him talk. Then he offered to take me out to eat. I hesitated—I really didn’t want him thinking this would turn into anything.

He suggested I put his bike in my trunk so we could drive to a nearby ale house.

In that moment, I made a calculated decision:

If I don’t do this now, I’ll probably have to see him again.

So, off we went.

The Icing on the Cringe Cake:

On the drive back, a car pulled up beside us at a red light. The people inside signaled for us to roll the window down. When I did, they started laughing. Coincidentally enough, the song No Scrubs by TLC came on the radio. I found it uncanny considering the situation I was in.

They were making fun of me.

“You’re really driving a grown man and his bicycle?”

Bless my roommate—she called with a perfectly timed fake emergency. I told him I had to rush home because my “sister” had shown up unexpectedly.

As I dropped him off, he looked at me and asked:

“I’m never going to see you again, am I?”

I smiled. Lied.

“I’ll give you a call.”

Spoiler alert:
He did not get a goodnight kiss.
He did not get a second date.
And that was the end of Bicycle Guy.