Terrifying ideas have been creeping into my consciousness lately. I’ve begun asking myself things like “Should I start an herb garden? Why pay retail for basil when I can grow my own?” and “Should I rent a camper and check out South Dakota?” and “Do they make 5,000-piece jigsaw puzzles?”

Once I began pondering whether I should finally take up golf, I knew something drastic had to change in my life. When men turn 50, they often begin to engage in activities or seek out hobbies or make life changes that let them reconnect spiritually or physically to their younger days. My midlife crisis, I decided, would avoid the cliché fancy new car (since I can’t afford one) and focus on something a bit more wholesome and stimulating.

Several years ago, a friend gifted me a top-of-the-line bicycle. As my journalism jobs took me from city to city, the bike sustained incidental damage (I ran it over with my car) and was rendered unusable. When my wife and I recently moved to a new town, one we believe will be our forever home, I decided to take the thing to a shop and get it on the road. I headed to the local Trek store, an impressive outlet teeming with overpriced gadgets and salubrious Americans. The salesman, blessed with an infectious, laid-back, positive vibe, convinced me to give my bike the works. (I also almost convinced myself to buy one of those gleaming, fluorescent cycling outfits. Fortunately, a visualization of my attempts to cram flabby flesh into skintight synthetic clothing flashed before my eyes, and I saved myself the embarrassment. If I could pass one nugget of wisdom to future generations, it’s that men of a certain age — say, anywhere between 13 years old and 90 — should avoid wearing Lycra.)

Still, once it was all said and done, I handed many hundreds of dollars to the chill man to get this thing back into working condition — and I was pretty psyched. There’s a 50-mile bike path not far from my home. There are biking clubs to join in my neighborhood and vineyards to visit nearby. I’m going to hitch one of those bike racks to my compact SUV. In no time, I’ll be putting on a knapsack and zooming up and down rolling hills with my new friends, finding life’s second wind.

As I leave Trek, in fact, I notice the place is decorated with huge images of athletic men and women of all ages and sizes, engaged in what are, no doubt, life-affirming cycling competitions and meaningful exertions of energy in both countryside and city. These people have mud on their faces. They are sweating. They are smiling. Their eyes are telling me: You too can do this, David.

You can’t. Because you’re getting old. After what I would categorize as a half-dozen suicide attempts on the contraption, I run into an elderly gentleman riding who turns me on to e-bikes — motorized bicycles that feature integrated electric motors to propel you forward. Now, that’s the ticket. With an e-bike, one doesn’t have to worry about any inclines. This knowledge is super helpful, because by this time, rather than competing in races or traversing challenging topography, I am taking leisurely half-mile bike rides over a single hill to a nearby creek where I seek out a secluded spot to go fishing. This is my time to reflect. It is invigoratingly quiet. I’m pretty sure the insane people on those Trek posters haven’t done anything as exhilarating as pulling a largemouth bass out of a muddy creek. It is more exciting than stage-diving or competing in a triathlon or driving a red sports car. I now hang out in massive sporting-goods superstores with other old-timers sifting through seemingly endless varieties of jigs, square bills, crankbaits, plastic worms, spinnerbaits, and swimbaits.

And, anyway, these days my wife and I get our workout by walking. Not speed-walking or hiking. I don’t really get much pep in my step at all, to be honest. Nothing fancy. Just plain old walking down the street. There is an entire industry, I soon learn, that manufactures footwear and clothing specifically tailored for lazy people like me. The reviews for walking sneakers make you feel like you’re a year away from being carted off to an old-age home — “Pros: Lightweight and breathable. Good shock absorption. Cons: Laces are not easy to change. Not warm enough for cold weather walking.” It’s okay, because I talk to my wife about our latest epic Scrabble game or monochromatic puzzle we tried to do, or ponder which bird seeds I am going to buy next.

That’s right, the former owners of my new home left us an impressive bird feeder. I intended to dismantle the thing and throw it in the trash, because bird-watching is probably the fourth-most tedious activity ever invented, right behind doing puzzles, fishing, and bike-riding. Now, of course, I am obsessed with birds. I consider myself something of an expert on the local varieties. I own binoculars. I’ve observed bald eagles and hummingbirds. I have begun recognizing the distinct calls of each species.

My embrace of the boring life has taken some getting used to. My wife and I not only went swimming with the sharks in Belize on our honeymoon, we hiked the jungle at night among jaguars and snakes. We used to seek out adventure. I was a punk-rock kid, for God’s sake. Now I know the difference between a hermit thrush and a northern flicker. But it’s all fine. Act your age. It’s a life that can be reliably enriching.