On The Wild Ride

By JOHN DICKERSON

Weaver, come out here!" barked John McCain from somewhere on the front porch of his mountain retreat. The candidate's political director fired back, "You were supposed to be napping." "Nah," said McCain, "we've got grilling to do." Some candidates golf, others jog. John McCain spent his first day off the campaign trail since New Year's doing what he loves best--twirling the grill tongs at his Arizona retreat nestled in the hills of Cottonwood, with gnarled sycamores and fruit trees everywhere. Dressed in blue jeans, his Arizona Wildcats hat and a white sweatshirt, McCain bounced on the toes of his shoes as he dropped 3-lb. chickens over one of four crusty gas grills. Covered with Hog's Breath--a dry seasoning of salt, pepper, garlic and paprika--the hunks browned over low heat for an hour and a half while grillmaster McCain constantly applied fresh squeezed lemon juice to keep them moist. "You know that putting green Clinton had installed?" the candidate joked. "We're turning that into a grill."

Even joking about becoming President is rare for a candidate who is so superstitious that in mild Arizona he wears the heavy winter shoes from New Hampshire, just for good luck. But McCain is giddy because he was supposed to be dead by now. From New Hampshire to South Carolina to Michigan, his mood has hit highs and lows. The banter on his bus started to go dry in ferocious South Carolina; he was testy with reporters. Before a TV interview the night of his defeat, he was so agitated by delays and a technical glitch that piped a celebratory George Bush into his earpiece he threatened to walk out of the interview. He quickly apologized, but it was a rare slippage for a candidate who admonishes his staff to "keep a steady strain."

Careening with him on this emotional ride are the four top aides who joined McCain for his one-day Arizona break last week. Unlike traditional campaigns, in which those in power stay behind at HQ, McCain's brain trust surrounds him on the road, huddling with the candidate in the galley of the bus or sprawling over the beds and sofas of his hotel suites to chart strategy. As McCain brought each of them into the campaign, he made one thing clear: "We're going to have fun." And they do, partly because they have convinced themselves that they are part of the Hollywood version of their political adventure. When they talk, you can sometimes hear the theme music too.

After the drubbing in South Carolina, the pranksters weren't having any fun at all. That Sunday, McCain and his crew sat in the Hyatt in Dearborn, Mich., facing the challenge of clawing their way back into contention. He would have to face a grilling by Tim Russert on Meet the Press. He was down. "The whole country is watching," said political strategist Mike Murphy. "They'll see whether you're mopey or if you're ready to be President." McCain quickly started to come out of it. Aides could see him say to himself, "What? A fight?" as if he could hop into the ring at that moment. Soon the candidate came up with the first line he would use with Russert. "I've crashed a couple of planes and slept in a hotel where they don't leave a mint on the pillow," he said to aides who could almost hear the sound track beginning to play. "Losing South Carolina is like a day at the beach." When he walked out of the room, McCain was on the balls of his feet. "He's not going to take it away from me like this," said McCain about his rival. "Not like this." It's that kind of moment--corny, a little histrionic--that makes one want to say, "C'mon, guys, save it for the screenplay."

By last Tuesday, the joking had returned, but the campaign was on pins and needles again. In his heart, McCain thought he was going to lose the crucial Michigan primary. His wife Cindy tried to lighten the mood, saying that since it had rained that morning, a rarity in parched Arizona, they had an omen of victory. Early Tuesday afternoon, McCain gathered with his staff in the sprawling kitchen of his Phoenix home, where he had just had a haircut. His four younger children ran in and out of the room. "Jack's a pork-barrel spender," joked 11-year-old Jimmy about his 13-year-old brother, using one of his father's favorite insults. Aides chowed on grilled cheese sandwiches while McCain cycled through a round of radio interviews on the phone. Political strategist Murphy got a call from a network-television source and while on the cell phone held up four fingers and shot a thumb's up. McCain was leading in early exit polls. Aides started celebrating. McCain rushed off the phone. "What? What? What?" he said, his necktie still around his chest from the haircut. When he heard the early numbers, his eyes bugged out as if he were wearing novelty glasses. While his staff traded high fives and bear hugs, McCain said, "Wow. Wow. Wow."

By evening, as guests snacked from glass plates of cheese and filet mignon, the early-afternoon euphoria seemed to have worn off. "Why haven't they called it, Murph?" the candidate asked at 8:20. The polls had closed nearly half an hour earlier in Michigan, but the networks still hadn't declared a winner. McCain walked across the 150-year-old Navajo rugs to the sofas, where some of his aides were seated. He was fretting. Maybe the exit polls, which had been close all day, were wrong. Maybe the Michigan Governor had been able to pull something off for Bush after all. Then came the whistles. McCain's friends, many of whom were with him 20 years ago when he won his first House race, erupted when he was named the victor. McCain and his aides shot up from the couches and the grins started. "Whew," he said. His arms, which his war injuries keep him from lifting over his head, shot out in double fists as if he were clutching an out-of-control steering wheel. He shook hands and hugged his staff. He was smiling so broadly you could see the gold caps on the teeth at the back of his mouth. Cindy turned to the campaign's bus driver, whose presence the couple consider a lucky omen, and said, "You're never going home."

It was time to indulge in a little self-satisfaction. Unbeknown to McCain, his supporters passed out a song sheet with words written to the tune of the Elvis hit Are You Lonesome Tonight? The lyrics were a broadside aimed at Arizona's Republican Governor Jane Hull, who had not only backed Bush but also publicly embarrassed McCain by pointing to his famous temper. "Are you lonely tonight as you're losing this fight?" sang the chorus. McCain barely joined in, fearing he might appear to be gloating. "Are your eyes teary blue?/ Darling Gov, is it true?/ Tell me, Jane/ Are you lonely tonight?"

By week's end McCain was looking ahead to the next contest. Leaning back on the $1.95 plastic chair he had bought at Wal-Mart, the grillmaster mused about returning to his Cottonwood sanctuary.

"If it all goes well Super Tuesday, we'll come back here," he said. "Ah, it will be perfect. The daffodils will be blooming. The flowers will be out. It will be beautiful."