Run, Eric, Run!

Eric Fingerhut does not like to interrupt. He does not enter a crowded room and pull people to him like planets to the sun. He does not brag about himself or gossip about others. He doesn't wink.

Fingerhut, therefore, is a rare politician. The cool morning sun rises slowly on the last morning of September, and Fingerhut is campaigning alongside state Representative Charlie Wilson at the farmers' market in downtown Steubenville.

"Hello, I'm Eric Fingerhut," he says, extending a hand to a stooped man wearing a steelworkers union jacket. "I'm running for U.S. Senate. I'm walking from Steubenville to Marietta."

"You are?" the man asks, his eyebrows popping up. "That's a long way."

"Yes it is. A hundred and eight miles, to be exact," Fingerhut says. His hand stays clasped with the steelworker's, but his head swivels toward a man in cowboy boots coming down the sidewalk. As he introduces himself, he abruptly pulls his hand away from the steelworker, who raises his eyebrows once more.

"Oh, hello," says the man in the cowboy boots, smiling as Fingerhut shakes his hand. Fingerhut keeps talking, even as he looks away to a woman selling wreaths from the back of her van. "I walked across the state, and now I'm walking from Steubenville to Marietta," he says, half to Cowboy Boots, half to Wreath Woman. The man doesn't know what to do, since Fingerhut is no longer looking at him. He stands there, smiling uncomfortably.

"I saw you on TV at the pumpkin festival," the wreath woman says. "You should have come to the apple festival, not the pumpkin festival."

"I know," Fingerhut says. "It's a big state."

It is a big state, and Fingerhut is running against a big man. A former Cleveland mayor and Ohio governor, Republican George Voinovich is the most powerful politician in Ohio. He has raised nearly $8 million for his Senate reelection bid, and he'd be a formidable opponent with even a fraction of that: 99 percent of voters say they recognize his name, while almost half have never heard of Fingerhut. The Democratic state senator isn't even well known in Northeast Ohio, where he's been a public official for most of the last 15 years.

So why is Fingerhut running at all? And why is he walking hundreds of miles across the state? It would be simpler and probably more effective to take the traditional route to Congress: turn his campaign into a 24-hour-a-day fund-raising machine.

The reason is that Fingerhut likes to make things complicated. He believes that Ohio's problems lie in the complex inner workings of tax abatements and school-funding formulas. But voters don't like complexities. And they don't like politicians who seem too distracted to look them in the eye. They ask simple questions. What do you and I have in common? Can I trust you? Fingerhut already knows the answers. He just doesn't realize it yet.

---

Four miles from a speed trap called Springville, three miles from McZena, Eric Fingerhut is power-walking up a hill on State Route 3. It's 10 o'clock on a hot August morning, and he's already gone six miles today. Fingerhut walks quickly but not gracefully. He keeps his head down, right shoulder hunched, and toes turned out, as if he's battling a strong wind.

Sweat pours down his forehead and pools on his chin before dripping to the pavement. Turkey vultures spin in lazy circles above the cornfields. Besides his campaign manager, Raquel Whiting, who inches along behind him in a white van, Fingerhut is completely alone. Passing drivers slow down and honk. Some beep their horns lightly and flash a thumbs-up. But this is overwhelmingly Republican farm country, and most people lean on their horns and display other fingers.

As the hill flattens out, he approaches an old-fashioned wooden gas station that's been converted into an antique shop. A woman in her late 30s watches from the shade of the awning as he crosses the highway to meet her. "Hello, I'm Eric Fingerhut," he says. "I'm running for United States Senate."

"Oh, hello," says Jill Diesenauer, owner of Springville Antiques. "What brings you out thisaway?"

"Well, I'm walking across the state, from Cincinnati to Lake Erie," Fingerhut says. "I just got tired of politics as it is -- they get all their money from lobbyists and big corporations and never listen to the people." As he talks, he scans the old wooden chairs, rusty Radio Flyer wagons, and green glass bottles lined up in front of the shop. "Been in business long?" he asks.

"Only about a year," she says. Fingerhut hasn't met a likely voter for the last hour and a half. But as he looks around, the conversation drags to a stop. Under the noon sun, the metal roof pops like a cracking knuckle.

"Looks like you have some nice stuff here," he says finally.

"Well, you should come inside and see the rest of it," she says.