No Letup in Pace of White House Race

When Omaha, Neb., looks like Grand Junction, Colo. a few things fast become perfectly clear: The 96-Hour Nonstop Victory Tour is no way to see America. And Robert J. Dole may be qualified to run for president, but he’d never cut it as a travel agent.

Dole’s four-day electoral extravaganza--one part carnival, one part mobile torture chamber--ends today in a Russell, Kan., elementary school, when the candidate walks into a voting booth in his tiny hometown at the center of America and casts one of the nation’s most public private ballots.

For the last four days, his caravan has lurched its way across the landscape in small, furious bursts via 18-wheeler and airplane and a bus named for a road surface, plagued by chaos and mechanical problems, fueled by Chinese food, really bad coffee and Missouri barbecue in its namesake state.

He has averaged a new state every five hours, talking his way through cities made indistinguishable by speed and darkness, traveling past tiny towns embedded in broad swaths of prairie and inner cities lit by the moon. He has been joined by presidents, heckled by Democrats and taken a $93 liedown--an hour and a half in a Detroit hotel room for a rest, a shower and a shave.

Candidate’s Voice Disappears

This is neither cheap nor easy travel--19 states in 96 hours of increasing costs and diminishing returns.

For after 15 speeches, four restaurant grip-and-grin drop-bys, half an hour on a citizen’s band radio while racing through the Michigan darkness and two stints on get-out-the-vote phone banks, the inevitable finally happened: Dole’s plane lost a tire, and he lost his voice.

Sunday night, West Covina, about 58 hours into his cross-country campaign-a-thon, and the words could barely crest his throat. Thick and gluey, low and slow, they got lost in the low hum of a distracted crowd.

“I trust the people,” he croaked. And, “Look at my record,” he gargled. And, “I look for your active help for the next 48 hours.” And, “Thank you very much and God bless America.”

It is Bob Dole abridged. It is over for the evening. Very soon, the tour will be over for good.

“If you talked as much as he did, you’d be hoarse, too,” says a defensive Nelson Warfield, campaign press secretary.

By predawn Monday at a Phoenix diner, the stump speech is whittled to two minimalist minutes--balanced-budget amendment, 15% tax cut, protect the flag, bash the president--and this, his new mantra: “While I still have my voice, I want you to know, I’ll keep my word.”

Plane Grounded

Monday afternoon, in Houston, Dole’s plane was grounded after safety inspectors found a tire with no tread left. He commandeered the press plane that usually trails behind him and headed off toward Louisiana.

Four days ago, it started out so much better.

Halloween night, the eve of the tour, Dole roams the aisle of his plane handing out affectionate chocolate kisses and tester toiletries from the depths of an orange plastic Jack-O-Lantern head.

“This is good stuff,” he says to a press corps that would follow him around for four days at close quarters. “We may need it. You want any of this stuff? You want a little deodorant?”

As the plane hurtles toward Columbus, Ohio, Dole is asked if he’s ready for the trial by miles. “The easiest part,” he says, “was putting out the announcement.”

3 States, 11 Events

In the first 24 hours, there are 11 events in three states. En route to the big kickoff speech in Columbus, the caravan passes the exit to the Living Bible Museum, looping on a highway past shrink-wrapped hay bales and pumpkins on porches, storm windows and satellite dishes, cornfields rattling with sere stalks and trees ablaze with the tones of autumn.

Former Presidents Gerald R. Ford and George Bush crack jokes and endorse Dole, talking about television’s “Saturday Night Live” and Wolverine football, only later calling the Kansan the most honest man in America. The ghost of Ronald Reagan, the missing Republican, hangs in the air, palpable.

“I want to mention someone who isn’t here,” says an emotional Dole at rally No. 3 with the presidential pair, this event in Ford’s hometown of Grand Rapids, Mich. “It’s President Ronald Reagan, a spirit of hope and optimism. . . . We love Ronald Reagan and we wish him well.”

Rusty Merchant drives a Dole van through the snow flurries in downtown Grand Rapids, a goodwill ambassador, volunteer and tour guide. This, he says, “is a city of primarily Dutch descent, with a church on every corner. . . . You have to be a Republican to have a citizenship card in Grand Rapids. It’s a rule.”

Tip of the Day

Aboard Citizen’s Ship between Indiana and Kentucky, early into Day 2, it’s time for the Bob Dole Travel Tip of the Day: how to be 73, sleep deprived, stay up for the better part of four days while making more than a score of speeches.

“I drink a lot of liquids, but not a lot of coffee. Eat a lot of fruit. Drink a lot of that water. Eat those chickens.” There’s a tray of cold fried chicken strips on the table before him in the airplane’s media zone. “Ours are hot. They put them in the microwave. They’re a lot better.”

At Thomas More College in Covington, Ky., Dole gets a much-needed break for his breaking voice. Margie Kimball, 42, clutching three flags and accompanied by three sons, shouts and cheers and waves and screams.

“I want Bob Dole to be our next president. He’s a real hero,” she says. “I don’t want a criminal in the White House. Tuesday’s trash day in my neighborhood, and I hope we get rid of Bill Clinton.”

Aboard Citizen’s Ship between St. Louis and Omaha, 31 hours down and 65 to go, and Dole wanders back for a chat, sort of tickled, a little giddy, teetering on that tiny line between hope and reality.

“It’s gonna get exciting,” he promises. “We’re gonna start picking up the pace here pretty soon.”

He Scents Victory

Omaha, Saturday, 34 hours down and 62 to go, a pumped-up Dole tells his airport hangar audience: “I smell victory in the air.” Considering the unkind polls and the unwashed entourage, Dole has likely smelled something far different.

The staff members and reporters who chose to sleep during Saturday’s 90 minutes in a Detroit hotel end up waiting until San Diego on Sunday morning for the first shot at hot water since the Victory Tour kicked off on Friday.

For those who have lost track by now, that’s 45 hours in the same clothes before Dole hits the La Jolla Hyatt for five hours in a soft bed followed by a hot shower. It’s also everyone’s first chance to sleep in anything other than an airplane seat or a moving bus for the better part of two days.

Dole pays for it immediately. On rising, there are unbidden faxes throughout the hotel from the Clinton campaign: “Wake up, Bob Dole, it’s morning in America.”

Sunday is a celebration of minor celebrities. In Las Vegas at 1:30 a.m., there was Gwen Tucker, age undisclosed, a Showgirl for Dole clad only in pink feathers. Wayne Newton, the Danke Schoen Darling, joins the candidate on stage in a ballroom at the MGM Grand. “If he doesn’t win, you and I both will be out of a job,” he warns.

Bo Derek Smiles

A dozen hours later, at “Bob and Elizabeth’s Family Picnic” in Loma Linda, Calif., Bo Derek stands on stage and smiles. Marie Osmond apologizes for the absence of Donny, brother and former teen heartthrob. The Oak Ridge Boys, cologne-heavy country crooners, warm up the crowd.

“We’re only a few minutes away from Bob Dole,” says Oak Ridge Boy Joe Bonsall. “That means there’s only one thing to do: Sing ‘Elvira.’ Elvira, Elvira, My heart’s on fire for Elvira.

One particularly ardent supporter, a Dole/Kemp bumper sticker plastered to her breast, claps along, first to the Oak Ridge Boys, then to piped-in martial music and finally to her very own personal tune. It goes something like this and it does not stop:

“Freedom, soul and Dole, freedom, soul and Dole. Woo hoo. We gotta win. We gotta win. This is really great.” Repeat. “Freedom, freedom. God bless America. Give God back the White House.” Repeat. “Clinton will just fade away, fade away. Woo hoo.” Repeat.

Fast forward to Old Towne Sacramento, as Sunday is poised to click forward to Monday. It is cold, it is late, and Dole stands on a windy platform, shivering, wiping his nose with a handkerchief and listening to a tribute from his favorite golfer, Chi Chi Rodriguez of the blinding white smile.

“This man is the man of today.” Rodriguez beams. “The man of yesterday. The American hero. When I was a kid, I couldn’t afford a pair of shoes till I was 15 years old. Thanks to Bob Dole I have nice shoes.”

‘Decision Day’

Monday, New Mexico. In 24 hours the journey will be over. Bob Dole stands at the base of the Sacramento Mountains, in the middle of White Sands missile range, voice crackling with fatigue. He looks out across the Tularosa Basin and speaks of the day to come, “D-Day, Decision Day.”

The first order of business, he tells the sparse crowd, will be an election-day pilgrimage to Independence, Mo., home of his idol in adversity, the one and only Harry S. Truman.

“Here’s a man,” Dole is fond of saying, “who’s a plain-spoken man, and he never gave up. He was way behind in the polls. The Chicago Tribune said ‘Dewey Wins.’ The truth of the matter is that Truman won.

“And won by just hanging on his message.

“Defying the odds.

“Hanging in there.”