My knuckles are white on the handlebars of the rental bike as I pedal faster to keep up with my date, who is weaving between taxis along Central Park South. I bust out a frantic sequence of arm signals as I  try and navigate this  five-lane death-trap. He turns into a crosswalk full of tourists and I manage to brake just in time to avoid impact with an old man. I’m  terrified  and half-expecting death just 15 minutes after meeting this guy, not knowing that death could turn out to be one of the higher points of my afternoon.

I met Mr. Investor on an online dating website, where I learned that he is a passionate musician with good grammar. We decided to meet on a street corner near the park, where I find him waiting for me in a pair of cargo pants. I have compiled a list of people who are allowed to wear cargo pants in public:

1. Individuals in the military.

2. Children under the age of 12.

There are no exceptions to the list and addendums are prohibited. His outfit was made more offensive by a blazer and running shoes, à la Jerry Seinfeld. I hope that his sense of humor will match his get-up. Alas he seems shy, so I ask him about his job as a private investor. He perks up and tells me “the market never sleeps” and compares the Olive Garden’s stock performance to that of “other dark restaurants,” and we finally reach the bike rental shop after a detailed account of the money he has invested in coal. I would rather be on a date with George Costanza.

The guy at the bike shop recognizes Mr. Investor, who rents bikes there regularly, and gets close to tell me to “be careful in the street.” It is clear now that this was not a standard warning for customers. My date’s reckless riding does not improve when we finally enter the park. He takes off ahead of me at a competitive pace, and I am wheezing in my attempt to catch up. I work up a generous amount of butt-sweat before I decide to enjoy the park at my own pace. After 20 minutes I forget I’m even on this miserable date with Evel Knievel, until he slows down and appears next to me. He says, “I know a really good field up ahead,” and proposes that we stop. I was really hoping we could continue riding our bikes 25 feet away from each other, but I go along with his charade to turn our awkward interaction into some kind of date.

Of all the topics to discuss, Mr. Investor can only seem to talk about politics. He makes an uncomfortable joke that the horses in the park are Democrats reincarnated. He continues to rant about “misinformed leftists” and says the word “liberal” as if he’s trying to get the foul taste out of his mouth. Before the last bit of radically conservative dribble even exits his mouth, he is already back on his bike and pedaling, uninterested in my response.

I watch him speed off like it’s the last mile of the Tour de France and he nearly sideswipes a woman pushing a stroller. I enjoy my quiet bike ride past the Guggenheim and around the reservoir before he appears again. He says he has to use the bathroom, and I direct him to the one just outside of Sheep Meadow, to which he replies, “No, I think I’ll find a suitable tree.”

My blood pressure is climbing along with my desire to ride off with his rental, but I try to find the humor in this root canal of a date.

When he returns, we talk about hobbies and he manages to insult every one of my interests. He likens yoga to a cult, believes that environmentalism is a waste of money and thinks that architecture would be improved if it was designed by investors.

The conversation turns to food, but he dislikes restaurants. I assume he cooks, so I ask what his specialties are.  He tells me, “pretty much just beans,” which is my cue that the date (if you can really call it that) is over.

Before we head back, he rummages through the infinite number of pockets on his pants and pulls out two of his own CD’s— “a gift.” He has offended me in every way possible during our date, to the point that I wonder if he’s actually trying to piss me off, and now he wants to impress me with a gift. I take his feeble offering and walk away with barely a “goodbye.” He follows after me for a few steps, shouting an eager, “Take care!” I keep walking, and wonder for a minute if Mr. Investor could calculate my low interest.