Going Rogue: An American Life (84 page)

Going Rogue

no understanding of logical steps we could take to capitalize on American energy resources.

During prep, we spent a lot of time on foreign policy and national security issues involving Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan, and various aspects of the war on terrorism. We

the press would

portray these as Biden’s strengths-and they

strengths,

thanks to his thirtyfive years of foreign policy experience. During rehearsals, I accidenrally called Randy “Senator O’Biden”-a slip-of-the-lip combination of Obama and Biden. The blunder struck too often, even tripping up campaign staffers. (Jay Leno later made the same slip on his new talk show, so we were in good company.) We laughed about it but knew rhat if I said it once during the debate, it would be disastrous.

Then somebody said, “You ought to just call him Joe.”

“Oh, I can’t just call him Joe!” I said. Senator Biden was a senior statesman. He’d been sitting in a U.S. Senate seat since I was nine years old. I believed calling him by his first name without his permission would be disrespectful. Randy seemed to read my thoughts and offered a solution. “In every debate, you cross the stage and shake hands with your opponent,” he said. “When you shake hands, just ask him for permission to call him Joe. He’s certainly going to say yes, because he’s a gentleman.”

So that’s what we decided I would do, We had no idea my mic would already be hot when I walked onstage, crossed over to his turf, and said, “Can I call you Joe?”

The “expert” postdebate analysis was that my question was a cleverly devised strategy to disarm my opponent. Yeah, right. At the ranch, things got more serious when we started the first of two formal practice debates: indoors, cameras rolling, under the lights, and each a fully timed ninety minutes long. The first session was intense. No breaks. No commentary or suggestions .

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SARAH

PALIN

on refining answers. Jusr back and forth with Randy playing his attack-dog Biden role so convincingly that I wanted to reach over and clobbet him fat his baiting and twisting of my words and record. When the ninety minutes ended, there was a pause, then the room burst into spontaneous applause. That took me aback1’d been so focused on the battle that I teally wasn’t paying attention to whether or not the McCain team thought I was doing well. But it felt fine to know they all thought so, especially aftet the gloom and friction of the Philadelphia ttials. Through all this, I had continued to request time to run. At the ranch, I decided I would just take the time, period. The Arizona weather and the hot, dusty trails heading into the McCains’ property wete too good to pass up. I couldn’t wait to slip into my ASICS

and wotk up a sweat. One afternoon when the guys stopped for a bountiful lunch Cindy had prepared, I laced up and headed out. Of course, I wasn’t alone. We were never alone. Secret Service agents ran with me, and a couple more followed us in a golf cart. I loved those guys ro death and got a kick out of watching them adjust to this tornado assignment called the Palin clan. But I still wished I could go solo, just have some space to breathe. This time, they knew best.

I ran along a road lined with plants that were exotic to a Northerner, such as purple sage and caccus. A gray-green lizard darted across my path, and I couldn’t wait to tell Piper about it-there are no lizards in the wilds of Alaska.

The sun warmed my back, the earth ccunched under my feet, and I breathed in the late-summer quiet. We crested a hill and I started striding down the other side, feeling freer and less burdened than I had in days. Then I stumbled. I lost traction and crashed, tumbling into the dirt, gravel slicing into my hands and knees. It took a second to register what I had just done. One of the Secret Service agents helped me up. It was quite embarrassing.

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Going Rogue

My hands and knees were a bloody mess, and one rhigh was scarlet with road rash. Suddenly I was very thankful for the agents. They helped me into the golf cart, and I tried to manage a laugh-between winces.

“Okay, you guys, you have to
swear
to secrecy!” I said.
“Please
don’t tell anybody I crashed. I feel like a fool!” The guys were so sweet. They promised.

When we got back to the ranch, one of them helped me clean up, picking gravel out of my palms. Although I probably needed it, there was no way I was going to a doctor for stitches because I knew it would be instant national news. I could imagine what headquarters would say about that. So the guys fixed me up and we covered the damage with giant flesh-colored bandages. Later, I saw Piper at the guesthouse. “Mommy! What happened to your hands?” I knew she would go around bragging about my crash, so I told her, “Well, when we were out rUl:.ming, I had to save your Secret Service guys from a rattlesnake! I tackled it!” No dice. “You crashed, didn’t you?” she said and offered me a Hannah Montana Band-Aid.

During the rest of our time at the ranch, debate prep went well because Randy and Steve Biegun basically took over. When we finished, the

babysitter, Penny Stielstra, helped pack up rhe

car seats and the bright pink Bumbo chair that Trig learned to sit up in during the Arizona stay; then the kids and Todd and I all headed in different directions that would ultimately converge in St. Louis. We’d come fall circle with Penny. She was the meticulous and trustworthy babysitter 1’d relied on nearly two decades earlier when I worked as a proofreader at the
Frontiersman
when Track and Bristol were tiny. We were thankful she was back· in this chapter of our lives for our little ones.

We left the ranch and hummed down the road toward the airPOft and the jet rhar would whisk us to the face-off with Biden.

SARAH

PALIN

As I watched the arid landscape glide past, my hands and knees stung and I reflected on my fall. It was like anything else I’d encountered in life that didn’t go as perfectly as planned. You stumble. Yep-it hurts. You’re bloodied. So what? You back

up and get on with it.

The vibration of my cell phone pulled me back into the vehicle. And when I answered, my heart leaped. It was Track. Finally. We talked for a few minutes from wherever he was in Iraq-he wouldn’t tell me, exactly-and I was so thankful for the Providential timing of his call: now of all times when I had just a few uninterrupted minutes, what would be the only quiet moments for many days to come. That he called at just that time from half
a world away was, to a miracle.

I rold him I was headed to a debate.

“Yeah, I heard something about that on the news,” Track said.

“Did you study?”

I laughed. Talk about a mother-son role reversal. “I did,” I said.

“I’ll be praying for you.” Another role reversal, the same words I’d said to my son so many times over the years. It was a “Right back atcha, Mom,” moment.

“You’re gonna do great,” he said. “I love you.”

“} love you so much, son.”

I hung up the phone and a peace settled over my heart: For me, no matter what happened in the debate, I could keep it in perspective.
My son called from Iraq. He is safe. Life is good.
We touched down in St. Louis, piled into vans, and headed straight for the debate venue at Washington University. From the second we arrived, I felt carried along on a wave of technicians, directors, and producers. We went straight into what they call a “techni
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