The Dating Files: Midlife Dating - Patrick (the Adventurous One)

Patrick (the Adventurous One)

You know those dates where you think you’re meeting someone for a quiet drink, maybe a chat about holidays, hobbies, the usual “so what brings you to online dating,” and instead you find yourself mentally checking your travel insurance? That was Patrick.

And to be fair, I did have a clue before we even sat down.

Because Patrick arrived on a bike — not a normal bike, not a commuter bike, but one of those impossibly light, aerodynamic contraptions that looks like it costs more than a small car. He propped it outside the restaurant with the casual confidence of a man who believes theft is something that happens to other people.

Then he walked in wearing lycra.

Not subtle lycra. Not “I just cycled here quickly” lycra.

No.

This was committed lycra. Sculpted. Shiny. Practically obscene. The kind of outfit that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination and absolutely everything to the lighting.

And the best part? He seemed blissfully unaware that his attire did not fit the ambience of a cosy wine bar on a Thursday evening. He looked like he was about to compete in a triathlon, not order a glass of Malbec.

Still, he was warm and smiley, so I thought, Fine. Let’s give this a chance. Maybe he’ll change after the first drink.

He did not.

Within ten minutes, I realise I am not on a date. I am attending a recruitment briefing for an expedition I did not apply for. Because Patrick — enthusiastic, charming, genuinely delightful Patrick — does not do small talk. He does quests.

Before the olives have even landed on the table, he’s telling me about the time he kayaked around some remote Scottish island “just to see if I could,” and how he’s planning a solo trek across part of the Pyrenees “to reset my soul.” He says this with the same tone most people use for “I might repaint the hallway.”

Now, I enjoy a nice walk. I enjoy fresh air. I enjoy a National Trust property with a café and a gift shop. But Patrick is operating on a different frequency entirely. A frequency powered by adrenaline, protein bars, and a deep personal relationship with Gore‑Tex.

At one point he leans in, eyes shining, and says:

“You strike me as someone who’d love wild camping.”

And I’m sitting there thinking, Sir, I strike you as someone who loves what, exactly? Because I have never once in my life expressed enthusiasm for sleeping in a bag on the ground like a rolled-up ham.

But he is so earnest. So passionate. So convinced that the two of us could be striding across some rugged landscape together, wind in our hair, backpacks full of dehydrated meals, bonding over the shared joy of not showering for three days.

Meanwhile, I’m still on: Do I even like Sauvignon Blanc anymore? Should I have worn boots? Why is he talking about altitude sickness like it’s a charming anecdote?

And then — then — he hits me with the big one.

“I’m looking for a partner,” he says, “someone who wants to live life fully. Someone who’ll jump on a plane with me at a moment’s notice. Someone who’s up for adventure.”

It’s said with such sincerity, such hope, that for a moment I feel like I’m letting him down simply by owning a hairdryer.

Because here’s the thing: Patrick is wonderful. Truly. He’s vibrant, curious, alive in a way that’s magnetic. He makes you want to be braver, bolder, more spontaneous. But he also makes you realise, very quickly, whether you actually want to be those things — or whether you just like the idea of being those things while still sleeping in a bed with a mattress and a duvet. And that’s the quiet truth of dating in midlife that no one really prepares you for.

It’s not just about chemistry. It’s about compatibility of pace. Of lifestyle. Of what “adventure” means to you now.

For Patrick, adventure is cliffs and kayaks and last‑minute flights to places where the electricity is optional.

For me, adventure is trying a new restaurant without reading the reviews first.

We finished the date with a warm hug — his very firm, mine slightly cautious in case he tried to hoist me onto his back and carry me to base camp — and I walked away smiling.

Because he was lovely. Genuinely lovely.

Just… operating at an altitude I have no desire to acclimatise to.

And if midlife has taught me anything, it’s this: I don’t need a man who wants to conquer mountains. I want one who’s happy to wander through the foothills with me, stop for a coffee, and enjoy the view — preferably somewhere with indoor plumbing.