I'm on the back of Arie Luyendyk, Jr.'s new Harley, on what is essentially a date from The Bachelor. We're racing down the manicured streets of Scottsdale, Arizona, and I'm gripping his obliques with my forearms, hands clasped in front of him, because I don't want to fall off this hurtling death machine. Arie knows it's my first time on a motorcycle, so when he guns the engine, I look down at the speedometer in panic. (We're going 37.) He must have felt my muscles tense, because he pats my hands, which are now sweating, reassuringly.

"You're doing great!" he shouts over the din.

Approximately 17 hours later we arrive at our destination, an organic grocery/cafe that makes a great cappuccino (he's from Europe, so he knows a great cappuccino). His dad was a successful race car driver, winning the Indy 500 twice, and Arie followed in his tracks, starting his own racing career at 16. Our day so far—heart-pounding daytime activity, then an intimate meal to talk about DEEP STUFF—echoes one of the meticulously choreographed dates from the ABC reality series in which he recently starred. After a failed turn on a previous season of The Bachelorette, he served as the 22nd season's leading man, dating and dumping every one of the 29 tanned and bikini-ready women. Barely five minutes after we sit down, before I even have a chance to ask about it, he brings up the climax of what's widely considered the most dramatic season ever.

(A quick recap for non-Bachelor diehards: After saying "I love you" to two women in the "romantic sands, shores, and mountains" of Peru, he proposed to Becca Kufrin, a bubbly, 28-year-old publicist from Minnesota. Weeks later, he realized he'd made a terrible mistake—he actually belonged with the runner-up, Lauren Burnham, a reserved, 26-year-old saleswoman from Dallas. So he broke up with Becca, and, even though the season had ended and cameras were no longer required to document their every relationship move, he invited the Bachelor crew to film the breakup. Then he proposed to Lauren.)

In the days and weeks after the finale aired, he was digitally crucified on Twitter. Fans branded him the worst bachelor in franchise history (which, really, was quite an achievement). They called him cruel and heartless and a dirty rotten snake and said he should be ashamed of himself. One proactive Minnesota state lawmaker drafted a bill to ban Arie from the state. Even former cast members, who understand the behind-the-scenes of the show more than most, piled on. "I don't like this one bit," tweeted former bachelor Sean Lowe during the breakup scene. "Shouldn't have filmed."

Arie knew his actions would be "wildly unpopular," he tells me in between bites of an egg white omelet. Of course he knew. But he had to do it. He'd made the wrong decision, and his heart was elsewhere. What he can't understand is why more people don't see that he was just trying to do the right thing for everyone. Really, wasn't that the brave thing to do? To admit you made a mistake and follow your heart to make it right?