Bumble Biker Blues

There I was, one rainy evening with a cup of tea and a mild existential crisis, when I thought to myself: why not give Bumble a go? Tinder had become a wasteland of shirtless bathroom selfies and “here for a good time, not a long time” bios, and Hinge was starting to feel like a slow-motion job interview where no one ever calls you back. So, Bumble it was — the app where women make the first move and men… apparently get hit by cars?

Let me explain.

Enter: Tall Drink of Water. Blonde. Athletic. Handsome in a “you look like you have a ski chalet in the Alps” sort of way. He was into mountain biking and other sporty, outdoorsy things that made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I could be the kind of person who climbs mountains on weekends. We matched, we chatted, and then we met — and guess what? He looked even better in person. I mean, come on. What were the odds?

Our first date was brilliant. Chemistry was bubbling, conversation flowed, and there was a sort of magnetic, low-key “this could actually go somewhere” vibe. Date two? Even better. Date three? Reader, we were on a roll.

Now, I should’ve known something was a bit too British. Despite the clear sparks, he hadn’t made any kind of move. Not even a cheeky shoulder brush. I began to wonder if I’d misread the whole thing — was this a friendship? A very charming and flirt-adjacent pen pal situation?

At the end of date three, we walked to the tube together, lingering awkwardly at Oxford Circus like we were in the final scene of a Richard Curtis film but missing the kiss. He tugged at the drawstrings on my jacket — yes, it was that cinematic. If we weren’t surrounded by stressed commuters and lost tourists, I might’ve gone full Love Actually and snogged him right there.

But no. We parted ways. He set up date four.

I got all dolled up, spritzed some perfume, mentally rehearsed witty things to say. And then — an hour before we were due to meet — I got the text.

“Sorry, I’ve been out with my mum and lost track of time. I’m not going to be able to make it.”

Oh no. No. That is not how this works. That is not how any of this works. I was gutted. I mean full-on, “put on my sad pyjamas and open a tub of Ben & Jerry’s” gutted. Because if there’s one thing I cannot abide, it’s being stood up. Especially by someone who seemed like he might actually have been worth shaving my legs for.

And then… radio silence. Two weeks. Nada. Nothing. Not a whisper of a message. I tried not to spiral. I reminded myself of that painfully honest book He's Just Not That Into You and thought, “Okay, maybe he wasn't. Maybe he met someone else. Maybe he got abducted by aliens.”

Or — plot twist — maybe he was hit by a car.

Yep. Two weeks later I got a text. Turns out my tall, handsome ghost had, in fact, been hit by a car and was in hospital with a shattered pelvis. That’s not just a red flag — that’s a flaming crimson banner waving in the wind of a Nicholas Sparks novel.

His message read:

“This is going to dominate my life for the foreseeable, and since we never really got started, we should probably call it here.”

Probably.

What does that even mean? Is that a soft ghost? A maybe-later ghost? A still-interested-but-currently-immobile ghost?

I stared at the message for ages. I’m not exactly known for my empathy — I once asked someone if their gran “really needed that many candles” after a birthday — but even I knew this required a gentle touch. So I replied with something like:

“Oh no, that’s terrible! Get better soon — let me know if you want anything dropped off at the hospital.”

Not exactly shutting the door, but not throwing myself at the foot of his hospital bed either. And then… nothing. Again. That was it.

Fast forward a couple of years. I’m back on Bumble, scrolling through the usual suspects — men holding fish, men posing with tigers, men whose bios are just “ask me anything” (ugh) — and then there he is.

Tall Drink of Water. Same pictures. Same chiselled jaw. Same mysterious air of what if. My thumb hovered. I clicked “like”. A subtle digital olive branch. A cheeky swipe of curiosity.

And? Nothing. No match. Not even a nibble.

And just like that, he ghosted me again. Only this time, I didn’t need ice cream. I just smirked, shut the app, and reminded myself: if he really wanted to, he would.

And if he’s reading this — hope the pelvis is better, mate.

Liked this tale of modern romance, miscommunication, and mild trauma? Stay tuned for my next dating misadventure, where a man takes me to a pub and proceeds to ask if I “believe in monogamy” before the drinks even arrive. Buckle up.