I spent last Friday on the Howard Dean campaign trail, traipsing across eastern Iowa and trying desperately to play the objective observer. In Cedar Falls, Daily managing editor Megan Hinds and I met up with the former Vermont governor’s posse: a small campaign crew, a national media junket, a passel of raving students and, of course, Dean himself. After a speech on the UNI campus, we headed south by charter bus to Coe College in Cedar Rapids for the same speech, then to the Amanas for the same speech again and a butt-kissing session over the quality of the pork chops. From there we went to Ames where — surprise! — Dean delivered the same speech for the fourth time in 12 hours. From there we parted ways; Dean headed to Des Moines for Saturday’s Jefferson Jackson Day Dinner, and we took the bus back to UNI.

So what did I learn after a day within earshot of the front-running Democratic candidate in the first trimester of the most important presidential race in a generation?

Well, among other things, I learned you must be out of your mind to do anything even marginally related to a presidential election. Except for voting in it, of course.

Through the day, we encountered all manner of campaign personnel — from the neurotic student supporters to the grizzled journalists to the good doctor himself. And I can’t say I envy a single one of them.

The student group, made up of college and high school kids from across Iowa, added a painfully amateurish element to the day. As we walked to the bus in Cedar Falls, one young Dean-ite baited the group with an, “I say ‘Howard,’ you say ‘Dean!'” chant. Much to the chagrin of those of us with any sense of personal and political dignity, the students humored her. The 30 or so of them wore matching Dean sweatshirts, because, I suppose, it was too cold to wear full cheerleading outfits with mini-skirts and pom-poms. On the long bus rides between stops, the students occupied themselves by trumping each other’s political knowledge and constantly reaffirming their commitment to the Democratic Party.

The highlight of our interaction with these students came at the end of the day, when we were leaving Ames to return to Cedar Falls. With the bus now empty of Dean, his staffers and the national news media, the students demanded we stop for provisions. We pulled into the East Ames Hy-Vee, where the kids, fully decked in their Dean sweatshirts, t-shirts, buttons, stickers and foam fingers, picked up the bare essentials for the 90-minute drive: pizza, chips, pop, a 40-ounce Budweiser, a handle of Jim Beam and a fifth of Smirnoff vodka.

And here I thought the hard drinkers on this trip would be the national press.

Before Ames, numerous national media outlets were present, making for what I assumed would be a dynamic debate, with the journalists pressing Dean on the “issues” and feeling his famed arrogant wrath. Well I was wrong. After following Dean around the country for weeks or months now, the journalists were more interested in wading through the repetitions of that speech for a usable nugget of information to build a story on than they were in attacking him and alienating themselves for the rest of the trip. Following a presidential candidate cross-country loses its appeal when you’re stuck on a charter bus in cold, gray Iowa tallying how many times Dean has said, “Ken Lay and the boys at Enron” in the past 12 hours.

And then there’s Dean himself. I like the man and what he stands for. His unapologetic abrasiveness is refreshing, and his stated reclamation of the Democratic Party is sorely needed. But I certainly don’t envy him. Presidential candidacy is an exercise in superhuman focus and will, with no time for anything else.

From what I saw Friday, the man never stops. From the day’s first preparations at 6 a.m. until his last briefing at who-knows-when, he’s on his feet; speaking, stumping and smiling, plugging programs and spouting figures. Every word he says is prepared, and every answer he gives is likely a quote from that well-rehearsed speech. Only once, in fact, were we able to force him out of his politician’s posture.

In our face-to-face interview, my partner asked Dean about the fate of hip-hop super group Outkast, an allusion to a Wesley Clark ad on MTV. This caught him off guard, and for a second he stumbled over the answer. He recovered, and with a flash of recognition, proclaimed that he liked Outkast. Then, to the shock of all present, he sang the chorus of their best-known song.

I like Dean. I like his ideas on education and healthcare and believe he has the cojones to lead this country, but my vote wasn’t cast for him until he sang, in his best Andre 3000 voice, “I’m sorry Ms. Jackson, I am for reeeeal!”