BILL CLINTON, FROM ONLY SLIGHTLY CLOSER RANGE

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Sometimes a whiff of real life blows through the exquisitely scripted royal progress. Riding his campaign train through Michigan, Clinton periodically dashes shoeless to the back platform to say a few amplified words to the people who are gathered by the tracks, unaware that seven cars ahead we are hearing, via loudspeaker, the disjointed and hilarious monologue from the First Extrovert: "Hi there! Thank you so much! How are you? Thank you for saying hello! Nice garden! That's the biggest satellite [dish] I ever saw!" (He says that twice.) "Be careful up on that platform! What a nice family, nice to see you! Nice bike!" None of his aides tells him we were listening in.

We spend a lot of time watching Clinton "work the rope line," shaking hands after speeches. He radiates the aura of a man complete. Back on Air Force One, he seldom reviews with aides where the audience applauded his stump speech but often mentions the personal stories he has heard, like the one told by a woman who thanked him for the Family and Medical Leave Act because it let her care for her cancer-stricken mom. On another day, after half an hour of clutching hands and signing scrapbooks that have his photo pasted on the cover, the back of Clinton's shirt is sweat-soaked from neck to beltline. Yet still he stops to bring a 90-year-old lady up onstage for a round of Happy Birthday to You. It is clearly the thrill of her life.

On that big scale, Bill Clinton is human and appealing. Up close he is more restless and off-putting. "I know you're all working very hard," he crabs to his staff after a day in Ohio. "But was there any good reason I spent two hours in a car today between events instead of putting them closer together?" When real catastrophe occurs, however, as when news of Dick Morris' affair reached the President en route to Chicago, he is disciplined, playing a few hands of hearts while his mind churns through his next steps.

The greatest catastrophe Clinton can imagine is being a one-term President, and it has made this man of big appetites a study in discipline all year. His advisers told him to act more presidential, and he has done it: keeping quiet when he used to think out loud, avoiding junk food in public and casual chats with reporters. His determined makeover omits no detail, as we are reminded each time he mounts the stairs of Air Force One. Bubba has become De Gaulle; he ascends slowly, gravely, arms stiff at his sides. He turns and waves and disappears inside, intentionally remote, en route to another four years.