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Which leaves sixteen thousand days unaccounted for. Lost leaves. Lawrence might say. I once planned to show Reagan this card file, just to see him react as drawer after drawer rolled out yard by yard, green tabs demarcating his years, yellow tabs his careers, blue tabs his triumphs and disappointments.
He never visited my study, however, and on reflection I am glad he did not, because he might have been disturbed to see how far he had come in nearly eighty years, and how few more cards he was likely to generate after leaving the White House.
In , at seventy-seven years of age, the President stood six feet one and weighed a hundred and ninety pounds, none of it flab. He boasted that any punch aimed at his abdomen would be jarringly repulsed. After a lifetime of working out with wheels and bars, he had broadened his chest to a formidably walled cavern forty-four inches in circumference. He was a natural athlete, with a peculiarly graceful Algonquin gait that brought him into rooms almost soundlessly.
No matter how fast he moved that big body could turn on a dime , he was always balanced. One recalls how elegantly he choreographed Mikhail Gorbachev up the steps at the Geneva summit: an arabesque of dark blue flowing around awkward gray. Reagan loved to swim, ride, and foxtrot. But he used the Russian word ravnovesie in its wider sense, of psychological equilibrium. Reagan redux did not care whom he bored, as long as nobody tried to stop him.
