The townsfolk are probably wondering why a man obviously well into codgerhood is suddenly rolling around town on a three-wheeled bicycle.

It’s because I hate and despise treadmills.

For seven boring years I have been going to the gym and crawling on one of the damned things and walking-running to nowhere. After a while it became like having daily root canal work done with a whirling brick.

I finally got to the point that when I entered the gym I hoped the treadmill had fallen over and broken a leg so I could shoot it, like a horse.

As I ambled into my 82nd year I made a vow that I would never run again unless being pursued by something covered with fur and fangs.

I was ready to say “Enough!” to exercising. I agree completely with Neil Armstrong, the first man on the moon, who said, “Each human heart has only so many beats in a lifetime, and I’m not going to waste any of them jumping up and down.” I also admire the lady who said, “If God wanted me to bend over and touch my toes he would have put them on my knees.” And I love Winston Churchill for saying, “Whenever I feel the urge to exercise I lie down until it goes away.” Another wise man said, “Why should I exercise? When I die I want to be sick!”

But, after a few weeks of sitting around scratching and aging, my Current Wife said, “Get up and do something or I’m going to trade you in on a pair of 40s.” And my doctor reminded me that although I have been blessed with good health all my life, the health of the final years was the most important. He didn’t agree with the comedian who shunned exercise because, “My body is just something I use to carry my head around.”

So I tried to figure out how to get exercise without doing damage to my spirit. I know many people get their exercise by just going for long walks. My neighbor starts each morning with a brisk walk to someplace over near Wyoming, but I’d rather eat a sandwich filled with cat fur and Vaseline.

After a few weeks of non-exercise I was at the point that I felt that the act of getting up out of an overstuffed chair warranted applause and a certificate of some sort.

Then I remembered that in my youth I had always enjoyed riding a bike. So I went and bought a used one. I rode for nearly 100 yards before I fell off and bent my ass. I eventually stood up, looked around to see if anyone was laughing, dusted myself off and stretched to see if anything had fallen off. I then gave the bike to a passing kid.

A few months later the muscles of my legs had turned to oatmeal, so I once again sought exercise. “If you can’t handle a two-wheeled bike, why not try a three-wheeler. You can’t fall off of them.” I said unto myself.

So I ordered a three-wheeler from Amazon.com. Five days later came a box so heavy it might have contained a concrete outhouse. The instructions said, “Some assembly required.” So I spread all the parts out on the garage floor and studied them. My family and friends know how good I am with machines and assembly. My car maintenance consists of the knowledge that the gasoline goes into the little round hole in the back and the water goes in the little round hole in the front. I still don’t know how air manages to get through all that rubber into the tires.

After a week of circling the bicycle parts and trying to figure out what went where, I put them all into several big sacks and took them to the local bicycle shop where they assembled it for me and took 45 of my best bucks. I thanked them, hopped on the three-wheeler and set off down the sidewalk—until I went to turn and tipped over and once again bent my ass.

I have since learned that three-wheeled bikes, which I call Geezermobiles, don’t handle anything like two-wheelers. To turn a two-wheeler you sort of lean into the turn. If you lean into a turn on a three-wheeler you are going to get holes in your sweat pants and skin.

But I now have a handle on the art of riding my geezermobile, which I have named Trigger, and am having a ball.

To make sure that the local drivers see me and don‘t leave me like a squashed toad I wear one of those orange vests that hunters wear. The color is so bright it stuns flies.

One of the many blessings of living in a small town is that there isn’t much traffic, so when I go wheeling down the streets I am not always dodging cars – and when cars do pass me they swerve far into the opposite lane, as if Trigger had a jumping venereal disease.

I don’t go riding after dark, and I stay off the roads when they are slick with ice or snow. Do they have chains for bicycle tires?

In the gym, back when I was riding that treadmill, my thoughts were always dark, dull gray and foul smelling, like Rush Limbaugh’s soul, but as I wheel through the streets of Livingston, Montana, I see rare sights and am flooded with unusual thoughts.

As I drove by a local grammar school I noticed that the boys at recess were running and jumping in front of each other — but they spun in mid-air and turned their backs to the victim as the flew past. It took me several minutes to realize that they were farting on each other as they whizzed by. So that’s where future congressmen come from.

I became aware of the fact that our small town is up to its wazoo in churches. They are everywhere, and I began to realize that each church was absolutely certain it were the only true church. All those other guys were on the wrong path. I remembered reading about a Presbyterian pastor who declared that Methodists were just Baptists who had learned to read.

During my rides I became aware that my town has no poor-side or rich-side. They all mixed together. You’ll see a grand old Victorian mansion puffing out her breasts as she smirks down her nose, while right next door is a house so small that the residents must sleep standing up.

When I rolled by the Middle School I swear there was the sizzling sound of emerging hormones, and I saw one shy boy walk into a wall as he visually drooled at the sight of a passing skinny girl who had legs like flower stems.

A more advanced example of the same emotion occurred as I drove past the fire station. A very well developed young woman, being followed by the happiest pony tail west of Omaha, bounced and jiggled while being watched by a fireman who looked like a cross between John Wayne and a redwood tree. His hungry observations must have left bruises.

I have learned to slow down considerably when I approach the neighborhood where an elderly woman occasionally walks into traffic without looking either left or right as she carries on loud and angry arguments with whoever is snarling inside her head.

Such are the thoughts from a Geezermobile. Beats hell out of a treadmill.