Away Game

Warner's stump speech is well-honed for a national audience. He races through his bio: grew up middle class in Indiana, Illinois and Connecticut, was the first member of his family to graduate from college (George Washington University), attended Harvard Law School and helped start two failed businesses before hooking up with a fledgling cellular phone enterprise known as Nextel. One big dollar sign followed by nine digits later, Warner became one of Northern Virginia's top venture capitalists while taking periodic forays into politics -- including an unsuccessful run for the Senate against Republican John Warner in 1996.

Mark Warner, who is married and has three daughters, was elected governor in 2001, a Democratic victory in a state that hasn't supported a Democrat for president since 1964. In his speeches today, Warner emphasizes his ability to appeal to Republican voters and the need for Democrats to compete in more than just 16 states in national elections. He touts his success in the private sector and Virginia's recent designation as the "best-managed state" in a survey by Governing magazine.

"The Democratic Party has always been at its best when it's seen as the party of the future," Warner says in a line that draws nods. It behooves Democrats, he says, to reframe the debate from liberal vs. conservative to "future vs. past."

Warner is fond of the New Economy jargon of the late 1990s: biz-speak terms like "value-added," "human capital" and "space" -- as in the wireless space , or the corporate space , or the government space (all of which -- "at the end of the day" -- fall within Warner's "comfort zone").

"We need to incent our auto industry to get better fuel efficiency," he tells a Harvard student.

Warner talks fast and in a throaty voice reminiscent of Jack Kemp's. He emphasizes how it's important for a politician to be "comfortable in his own skin," although the governor can sometimes appear anything but, particularly around the media. Reporters who have covered him say that getting Warner to relax, even off the record, is like pulling horse teeth.

He evokes, at once, a supreme sense of self-confidence and an expectation that a chandelier could fall on his head at any second. He is a fidgety 6-4, speaks in halting cadences and takes long pauses before answering questions, as if his brain is churning with every potentially catastrophic permutation of his answer.

Warner often prefaces remarks by warning that he's "about to say something a lot of people might not agree with." He does this in his speech to the Harvard Democrats. As listeners brace for something controversial, Warner comes forth with the familiar refrain that Democrats can't compete in only 16 states in presidential elections. When a student follows up by asking what individual states Democrats should compete in, Warner pauses, stares at a spot on the ceiling for a few pregnant seconds before answering, finally:

"The South," he says, then mentions some "opportunities in the Midwest."

* * *

"It's a bright, beautiful day," Warner says, strolling out of a discussion on high school dropout prevention at Nashua South High School Friday. The event, attended by 50 invited educators, lasted an hour and included no mention -- by Warner or anyone else -- of any presidential notions.

But "Governor, are you running for president?" was the second question he received during a session with reporters afterward. He declared himself undecided and mentioned the "best-managed state" distinction three times in eight minutes.

The governor is accompanied on his trip by his personal aide, his Virginia communications director, another staffer from the governor's office, two advisers from his state and national political action committees, a Virginia state trooper and a Massachusetts state trooper who, for whatever reason, is driving the governor of Virginia around New Hampshire.

After his Nashua South visit, Warner is set to head to his luncheon in Manchester, except that his van is temporarily blocked by an idled school bus. So Warner's driver jerks the vehicle up onto the sidewalk to get around the bus, passing close to three students.

Two reporters in a car behind Warner witness the incident, and the governor's communications director, Ellen Qualls, who is in the back seat, promptly calls up to Warner's car. "You're creating a story here," she says, trying not to be heard by the reporters, to no avail.

And to think, Warner's career was showing such promise.

But these are forgiving days in New Hampshire. Warner is mobbed upon his arrival in Manchester. Local Democrats expected 30 activists and elected officials for lunch, but about 170 RSVPs poured in the last few days, a testament to the millionaire governor's boomlet.

"This is our chance to kill several birds with one stone," says Mame Reiley, a Warner political adviser traveling with him. "We don't want to come to New Hampshire and meet with just a few activists."

But of course the birds can't be dispatched with just one stone. They require repeated phone calls and visits and birthday cards over months, or years.

One is D'Allesandro, a self-styled kingmaker of presidential aspirants in New Hampshire. D'Allesandro welcomes Warner to Manchester, "the Queen City," and declares in a brief speech that "there are more queens in front of me than I've ever seen before in my whole life." It is unclear what D'Allesandro means by this exactly.

On his way out, Warner assures everyone that he will be in touch and that he's interested in hearing their ideas. He invites e-mails, poses for cell phone pictures and a group shot with state representatives. He collects business cards and invitations to parties, forums and an annual dinner in April, a mere 22 months before the primary.

Someone hands Warner a box filled with chicken and rice for his ride to Boston's Logan Airport. He is standing beside his van, and a few feet from a car plastered with Howard Dean stickers from years ago -- actually less than two years ago; it just seems longer.

"I'll be back," Warner says, invoking his counterpart in California, and a New Hampshire state rep wishes him luck on his "job search."

The governor's van pulls out of the parking lot -- and New Hampshire -- without further incident.