This is The Offerman Files, where actor, humorist, author, and woodworker Nick Offerman shares tales of wild creatures, gassy adventures, and hitting his brother in the face with a fish.

　　A couple years ago, when two footfuls of plantar fasciitis caused me to switch from running to cycling for my daily cardio workout, I was excited to be reunited with my beloved but long-dormant 2007 Specialized Tarmac road bike. But there was one problem: I live amid the steep hills of the inhospitable-to-cyclists city of Los Angeles. As usual, when faced with any obstacles to my addiction to exercise and outdoor fun, I turned to gear. “Surely,” I said, “there’s a solution to this problem that a guy might purchase with his hard-earned lucre.”

　　If I had a nickel for every time I’ve said that, I would have enough money to buy even more sweet, sweet gear! I’ve always found it powerfully gratifying that beautiful, well-designed outdoor products enable me to fulfill my body’s daily requirement for dopamine.

　　In this case, I had only to head down to the local bike shop, where I was coddled, groomed, and sent home with a Wahoo Kickr stationary trainer upon which I quickly and easily mounted my bike. It came with an app so I could adjust the resistance on the rear wheel, using my phone, as I rode mile after mile in my garage, staring out the open door. It was great: a training regimen I could squeeze in on almost any day, just like I used to do with running. No need to drive to the gym—I just clipped into my pedals and I was rolling, usually while listening to an audiobook or a podcast. And when I’m on location for a shoot or touring, I can saddle up a stationary bike in the hotel fitness center. A perfect system.

　　Well, almost. Pretty soon I began to really miss being out among the elements, which had been another of my favorite things about running, even in the rain (because I love my rain gear so much). The bike trainer was convenient, but my spirit was caged. So I took my Specialized off the trainer, put it in the car, and hauled it to the L.A. River bike path—specifically, to a stretch along Atwater Village and Los Feliz, which is a wonderful place to ride and see birds. In Burbank, at the top end of the route, I took a left into Griffith Park and pounded uphill to the observatory. Great views and a great workout. I felt liberated. I was back in the world instead of spinning wheels like a hamster.

　　Of course, driving my bike to a safe and friendly location adds time I often can’t spare. So I once again turned to gear: “Surely there’s a solution to this problem that a fellow can purchase with his hard-earned lucre.” I bought a Giant Trance E+ e-assist mountain bike, which was a revelation. I had resisted this technology for years, because the old-school jock in me saw it as cheating. I’m pleased to report that I fully cut a caper when I realized how wrong I was. You can turn the pedal-gooser up or down—there are five levels—to provide everything from “very little help” to “a really cushy ride, you baby.”

　　I could now launch from my house and ride through my mountainous neighborhood on an hourlong loop, still getting a very brisk workout. Or, on occasion, I could take a few hours and ride west along altitudinous Mulholland Drive, keeping even with the red-tailed hawks, and then ride into the Santa Monica Mountains—climbing the fire roads toward Malibu, soaking in views of the Pacific, and marveling all the while that a brilliant little electric motor had gotten me outside again in such a rewarding way. For the first time, my eyes were opened to all the rich cycling options in my area. When I happened upon a potential new route, I’d grin and think: Hell yeah, gear. Let’s do this.

　　But as much as I enjoy shiny new toys, sometimes it’s the old favorites that get me going. In the back of my truck, I always carry my hiking boots and a little blue Osprey backpack with a two-liter water bladder. I bought the pack years ago, when I was living in Santa Cruz to film the exquisite sci-fi series Devs, created by writer and director Alex Garland. I rented a mountain bike and spent my days off flying around trails in the redwood forests that surround the campus of the University of California at Santa Cruz.

　　The pack was always with me, and it has since become a reminder of my need for escape. The simple act of keeping it ready, with a full bladder and energy bars, has led to excellent impromptu hikes around the mountainous neighborhoods of Pasadena, Glendale, and Altadena. As I’ve learned, Los Angeles County is full of rugged canyon trails that start on the edge of an unassuming neighborhood and within minutes have you feeling like you’re far from civilization. I can be filming on location, or working at the Offerman Woodshop, when I spy the Osprey and hear its call: “Haul me up the mountains and you can enjoy some sinful calories after.” My favorite is a thermos of coffee and some locally baked gougères, a kind of cheese puff. Damn. Just typing that makes me drool for a hike.

　　Beautiful, well-designed outdoor products enable me to fulfill my body’s daily requirement for dopamine.

　　Gear can inspire us on a much bigger scale, too. In early 2020, when the COVID-19 pandemic hit, my wife, Megan Mullally, and I were like everybody else—we kept away from other people to avoid the plague. It was crushing and depressing, but Megan knew exactly what to do: part with a right healthy portion of our lucre in exchange for a piece of Gear with a capital G. We bought a 30-foot Airstream trailer. Now as then, we love to take road trips, hauling it hither and yon. We head out for at least a few weeks every year if we can.

　　This 9,000-pound love wagon has so many accessories, you’d think it would never come up short in any aspect of camping, but you would be wrong. The Airstream’s ability to properly grill and smoke joints of meat is embarrassingly feeble. Yes, it has a couple of gas burners and the cutest tiny oven. But if like me you enjoy barbecuing low and slow, or even just having the elbow room to make good and proper love to your slabs of ribs and tomahawk rib eyes, then a camper kitchen is severely lacking.

　　By now you know what we do when faced with such a problem. I pick up my large acoustic guitar, pluck a cowboy tune, and sing: “We buy gear with our filthy lucre!”

　　I got us a Big Green Egg ceramic smoker last year, using it right away to dispatch a pork butt under the magical canopy of Oregon’s Sitka spruce, cedar, and big-leaf maple groves. Megan made enchiladas and fresh guacamole. Allow me to simply say: problem solved.

　　Nick Offerman doesn’t just write about gear, he makes the stuff—including an exquisite cedar canoe that he crafted and then paddled down the L.A. River.