The small parade of Suburbans is traveling at about 80mph across the scorching desert sands. The beautiful Arizona sunset casts long umber shadows of the vehicles which flicker across the tundra, catching on saguaro cacti and large rock formations. The factory a/c has been replaced with an industrial strength, real freon based unit and the dash outlets provide the first numbingly cold air I have felt emerge from a post-1994 vehicle. In 118 degree heat, that's a luxury that counts.

Four heavily armed secret service agents guide the convoy through the gates and onto the extensive grounds. Khaki colored pants and white shirts give them the uniformed look of resort employees. The extensive armament makes them look like resort employees about to go postal.

I pull through the gates and park near a large row of palm trees. An oasis lies hidden here behind the eight foot alabaster walls and golf course green grass and beautiful flowers are evidence of extensive water usage and expert care. Twenty acres of Presidential retreat contained in the proverbial middle of nowhere. Located in a small town that boasts a gas station, two 50s era burger joints replete with the obligatory flashy roadside architecture and kitschy splashes of color from another era and a few dozen clapboard houses painted very light hued colors to ward off the intense heat.

I open the door and instead of noticing the heat - the first thing I notice is mist in the air. Dozens of mist coolers are situated strategically around the grounds and must be pumping gallons of moisture into the air each minute. The effect is to drop the temperature on the grounds to about 95-100 degrees which, in August, feels nice and refreshing.

The mist hitting my face and evaporating keeps me cool, while my light tan, felt, Resistol Cowboy hat and thick Texas Cotton shirt help keep the radiation from burning my skin. I turn and watch Condoleezza, Cheney and Rumsfeld emerge from two other white Suburbans, clones of this one.

Cheney looks uncomfortable in the jeans he wears, and Condoleezza only moderately less in her jeans, although from here her jeans look like they fit her very well. Rumsfeld doesn't even attempt a ranchhand look and settles for the same light khaki pants and light shirt worn by the secret service, the same relaxed style he wears at the Pentagon when he's not wearing a grey suit. Rumsfeld's 71, but keeps himself in great shape by playing squash at his home near DC and staying active.

Noticeably absent from this meeting is Powell, whom I was actually hoping would attend. However, he is visiting with his daughter Linda somewhere and enjoying a little deserved R&R. I last saw Linda in the role of Ruth, a character in the play Raisin in the Sun, shining brightly, in a performance held in the tense few months after 9/11 after which her father beamed quite proudly.

The President emerges from his Suburban to lead us into the house. He is smiling and relaxed - more relaxed than he was the last time we met to be certain. He walks like and old pro in his Dingo boots and looks as if he were born in them. He clearly keeps his base by remaining grounded to the southwestern lifestyle and philosophy. No heirs or aloofness remains in his inner circle - only honest and often blunt conversing. The wonder of the early days of the Presidency has worn off and has been replaced by a true sense of purpose. Somewhat like a new car that loses a bit of it's lustre yet which only makes clearer it's true function.

Imposing ten foot tall lacquered doors greet us. The structure, all brilliant white stucco is far more imposing than his ranch at Crawford and seems more appropriate for Presidential meetings. Single story with a desert style twelve foot tall elevated ceiling, it's interior is decorated luxuriously in southwestern hues of rust and tan. More expensive fittings adorn the walls than at Crawford and I can see that this house, which is less used, has been left exactly the way the interior decorators finished it.

"Welcome one and all to the Arizona White House!"

I sit on a very comfortable Haitian cotton couch and take off my hat. Polished parquet wood floors gleam with a nice sheen and plush vanilla carpets accent them nicely. A huge fireplace with a pile of neatly stacked logs next to some brass fireplace accessories is to my right. To my pleasant surprise Condoleezza has sat down next to me on my left and her perfume wafts under my nose gently.

Chatter about Iraq starts up at once and policy is debated.

"We need to deal with Tikrit more effectively", Dr. Rice offers aggressively.

"When it cools down moral will receive a shot in the arm."

"How do you think should we handle Schwarzenegger?"

"We need to push a small domestic initiative before November."

"I'll meet with Greenspan soon."

"Anyone else notice how quiet Schroeder and Chirac are?"

These and two and a half hours worth of other lines crisscross the room. I sit and listen mostly, offering a few ideas when they pop up. With so many alpha personality types in the room, it's hard to speak for more than a minute at a time, before someone breaks in.

Drinks are served by Bush himself, and consist of everyone's favorites. I'm flattered somewhat that Bush bothered to remember I like Roy Rogers.

A rare and expensive refrigerated pool beckons in the backyard. However, first there is an extended invitation for those who want membership into the hundred degree club. The 100 degree club is a group of folks who have run with the President in temperatures over a hundred degrees. Bush plans a run around the compound and down to the burger joint - just a mile and a half each way. I'm game for it and so are about a half dozen secret service agents who have done this numerous times before.

"That pool and a shirt are your reward if you join."

It's a 101 degrees outside at ten o'clock. Running in this heat requires a lot of liquid and I grab two bottles of Arrowhead water from the fridge and chug-a-lug one of them and change into a pair of jogging shorts kindly provided by the secret service which have embroidered a small number "100" on them. A gray sweatshirt awaits to match it, if I complete the run.

"Tech1 this ought to be easy for you," The President says with a smile, "your body is already conditioned to the heat."

Conditioned to the heat or not, running in heat is a form of punishment no one really enjoys and Bush apparently uses to push himself.

The sweat comes profusely after the first two hundred yards. Which is good. It is when you stop sweating that you have to worry. Fortunately the Arizona sun and its accompanying radiation are gone. The heat is dropping slowly too and at a certain point one can literally feel the difference when it breaks below 98. Partly due to the compounds cooling mists drifting outside the walls.

Ice water is ordered at the burger joint. The two youths on duty, amazingly, don't recognize the President, or if they do they conceal the fact well. I splash an icewater over my head and let it drip down while drinking another. Aaaah. Ice is nice. We head back at a slow measured jog - Bush with two secret service agents leading the pack.

I find myself wishing Tech7 were here to spur me on. I can imagine her kicking my posterior if I let some secret service agents beat me to the compound here on our own turf. Just thinking about her seems to help me quicken my pace and I suddenly realize how much a part of running is truly in the mind.

I catch up with Bush and the two others with just a little effort. I pace myself to keep some reserve. I know that Bush sometimes likes to break into a run in the last couple hundred yards, and want to be ready when he does.

No one talks. Everyone's way too tired for that. As expected, Bush breaks loose and starts bolting - a testimony to experience. I bolt for the compound too and I catch up with Bush - one of the two secret service agents I can feel is right behind me. My legs burns and are tired, my lungs heave but Bush and I burst through the compounds gates almost simultaneously.

In a moment it seems we are all bending over wheezing. We slowly make our way to the pool and after removing shoes and socks - jump in. Seeing eight grown men jump into a pool seems sort of ridiculous but when one's tired and hot the ridiculous matters very little.

It feels ice cold and wonderful.

"Tech1 you've earned your shirt."

I couldn't care less at the moment - my only concern was cooling an overheated body down.

In the corner of my eye I see Rumsfeld chatting with Condoleezza. She has stopped to observe the commotion and she smiles her genuine grin.

"Come on in Condi - the waters fine!" I shout out.

She shakes her head, but I can see a part of her really wants to jump in too. I turn my head and seek out the President for more conversing while I have his ear.

Suddenly a big splash occurs right beside me, shocking me somewhat and knocking me in the face with a big wave of water.

It's Condoleeza - she surfaces and she is laughing almost hysterically. I see why - she still has on her jeans and shirt. Her freckles glistening cutely in the reflected light of the shimmering blue pool.

"You didn't think I was going to let you men have all the fun did you?"

"Never," I say loudly, "you certainly know how to make a splash!"