Bike messengers have always had a certain element of mystique that I am inherently drawn to. One deliciously cut courier delivers our paychecks every other Friday and we’ve had a mild flirtation for months. These men (yes, I know there are female bike messengers, but I’m not infatuated with them so I’m consciously choosing to ignore their existence, though they are, arguably, more badass than the men) risk life and limb every day just because they love riding. The intensity of their need for adventure and apparent addiction to adrenaline is tantalizing. Plus there’s the whole badass element, which goes without further explication. I don’t care how much of a nauseatingly goody-two-shoes you are – you’ve been inextricably attracted to a badass in one form or another, so you should all know what I’m talking about. Why is it that I automatically assume the sex will be better and – dare I say it? – positively earth-shaking simply because the guy’s lifestyle is more edgy and a bit (or a lot) on the extreme side? You’d think I’d have learned by now that there is not a direct correlation, but I haven’t. I’m intrigued: why would anyone choose a job where you know the consequences to be potentially dire, and where you’re practically guaranteed to fuck up your body?

This curiosity, plus the fact that this guy is super hot (and I couldn’t help wondering just how ripped he was under those bike shorts), led me to suggest we meet up for drinks. We met at some little hole-in-the-wall frequented by, surprise surprise, bike messengers and a motley assortment of other hard-core athletic types. Let me be very clear in distinguishing this set from the gym-rats. These people get their exercise through their lifestyle, not through spending thousands on a gym membership where “runners” will never encounter asphalt or gravel. While there is a definite aroma of exaggerated male ego when around messengers and their ilk, it is – to be fair – at least partially deserved. They ride a lot. They sweat a lot. Their muscles are chiseled. They exude raw testosterone. And now that I’ve thoroughly distracted myself…

Anyway. About the date.

He bought the first round – some kind of micro-brewed beer for him and gin and tonic for me. We talked easily, and he wasn’t the least bit phased to hear I’d been in grad school, which can often be a conversation inhibitor with certain men (Competitors in particular). Though, there is a fine line between not being phased and not caring. He shared the mechanics of how bike messengering works and talked at length about the pros and cons of riding a fixed-gear vs. the more traditional geared bike. There was a slight sneer of scorn when I admitted I was ignorant on this point. And then, somewhere into the third round, I asked him what he wanted to do after he was done being a courier.

And that’s when it all went horribly wrong