He was 72 and I was 47. We shared an interest in horticulture and a past on a City volunteer nature committee. I was training to go with my sons on a Boy Scout backpacking trip and someone told me he was walking for fitness a few times a week, so I called and suggested a joint hike. Asked where he walked. He said oh, down the prairie path. I asked how far. He said oh, to the library and back, maybe a mile. I figured it would be fun to have company and that I could walk a little more after we were finished if it wasn't rigorous enough for my training level. And it would be a good day to add 5 more pounds to the pack. I showed up at his house and we set off with me under nearly full pack load. Dang he was fast! I had some trouble keeping the pace and found myself desparately searching for plants we could stop to look at so that I could rest my aching calves and catch my breath. And he just kept going and going and going. After we dragged back into his driveway much later than I had anticipated, I asked if he knew how long that route was. He looked at the pedometer on his belt and said it was about four and a half miles. I asked if those things were accurate. He said his was usually a little short. Later when I was telling his daughter the story of how her 72 year old dad tried to kill me on that walk by tricking me into loading up my pack and walking over four times as far as he said he usually went, she reminded me that he was actually 80.