"Give me age and cunning over youth and strength any day," my father used to say, in a lame attempt to somehow prove to me that his graying hair and beer gut were badges of honor, not tokens of his rapidly increasing decrepitude and a certain future familiarity with XXXL-sized Depends undergarments.

Dad was just unwilling to concede that while he'd left his prime in the age of polyester leisure suits and disco balls, I was just entering mine. On the other hand, I never thought that at age 20 I'd encounter the necessity of conceding that perhaps youth and strength were underrated when compared with a combination as rare as it is potent: age, cunning, and more strength than any youngster I know can lay claim to. That was before I came here, to the other side of this third rock from the sun, and encountered a being I like to call Super Geezer.

No, I am not referring to Sylvester Stallone. He's a pansy compared to Super Geezer. And Super Geezer doesn't even need human growth hormone (no, I am not making libelous statements about your client, lawyers of Sylvester Stallone. Why don't you go look around for the shattered remnants of Sylvester's acting career, after the turd that was last year's "Rocky Balboa"?).

Super Geezer was, quite simply, an ordinary looking older Asian man I met a couple weekends ago, who lived in a village at the base of the Sa Ma Tai region of the Great Wall that had more chickens than people. From his scrawny physique and John Q. China features, you'd have never guessed that this particular old man would be kicking my rear end all the next morning on the hour-and-a-half long climb up to the wall's highest point, but he did just that.

We left in darkness, at 3:30 a.m., intent on scaling the peak in time for the sunrise. Super Geezer led the way, and he left no doubt that he was in better shape than anyone in our group of college-aged students. Arms crossed complacently behind his back, he climbed practically vertical paths at the same speed the entire morning, never slowing, never making a misstep, never taking his hands from behind his back. We were all quickly winded and having difficulty making it up the treacherous path, but Super Geezer never once lost his footing.

The man practically floated up the mountain. And when we finally reached the top, he did what any health-conscious Chinese super-stud would do: lit up a cigarette. Breathing carbon monoxide? Super Geezer could run a marathon sucking nothing but diesel exhaust. Climbing a mountain path that's been responsible for more ankle injuries than the stilettos Chinese women wear on the treadmill at the local gym? Super Geezer laughs at the mountain and grinds out his cigarette butt in its face.

Move to China, Dad. Live among the villagers and their chickens. Climb the mountain. Smoke cigarettes. With any luck, you too will be transformed into a Super Geezer. Just don't Depends on it.

Author:Matt Doran