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  Then there was the food we eat all over the country. We had a few favorite spots: a Middle Eastern takeout place in Detroit; a Cuban restaurant by the airport in Miami; lattes made with honey and lavender from a bakery in Des Moines. At the Iowa State Fair, in the 100-degree August heat, I drank about a gallon of lemonade. Nick handed me a pork chop on a stick, which I devoured. When we got back to the plane, I told him, “I want you to know that I did not eat that pork chop on a stick because it is politically necessary. I ate that pork chop on a stick because it was delicious.” He nodded wordlessly and kept eating his own state fair discovery: red velvet funnel cake.

  One hot night in Omaha, Nebraska, I was consumed with the desire for an ice cream bar—the simple kind, just vanilla ice cream with a chocolate shell. Connolly called an advance staffer, who kindly picked some up from the drugstore and met us at the plane on our way out of town. We said thank you and devoured them before they could melt.

  One of my favorite places to eat and drink is the Hotel at Kirkwood Center in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. It’s run by hospitality and culinary students from Kirkwood Community College, and they do a great job. On one of our first visits, I ordered a vodka martini with olives, as cold as they could make it. Cecile Richards, the indomitable leader of Planned Parenthood and a Texan, was with me, and she insisted I try it with Tito’s Handmade Vodka, the pride of Austin. It was a great drink. After that, whenever we stay at Kirkwood, the waiter sends over an ice-cold Tito’s martini with olives, without me even having to order it.

  We take birthdays and holidays seriously on the road. We put up decorations on board for Halloween and Christmas, and there’s always a supply of birthday cakes on hand. We can’t light candles—no fire allowed on the plane—so we tell the birthday boy or girl to pretend that they’re lit and make a wish. We even found an iPhone app that simulates a lighter, to take the game further, which we also used to “light” the menorah we had on board during Hanukkah.

  I am famously hard to surprise on my birthday, but for 2016, my team managed to sneak a cake into my hotel suite in Miami and gather silently in the living room while I was on the phone in the bedroom. When I walked out, they both startled and delighted me with an enthusiastic rendition of “Happy Birthday” and a chocolate cake with turquoise frosting. Since it was still early in the morning, we brought the cake with us on the plane to eat later. The night before, we had all celebrated together with an Adele concert. Perfect.

  My team and I lived a lot of life together during our year and a half on the road. Families changed. Babies were born. Beloved friends and family passed away. Some people got engaged; some got separated. We raised a glass when Lorella Praeli, our director of Latino outreach, took the oath to become an American citizen. Several of us traveled to New Haven, Connecticut, a few weeks after the campaign began to hit the dance floor at Jake Sullivan’s wedding to Maggie Goodlander. We were often away from home, under the gun, pushing ourselves as hard as we could to win. As a result, we relied on one another. We came to know one another’s habits and preferences. We’d often gather in my room in the evenings to order room service and talk about that day’s news coverage or go over the next day’s schedule. We watched the Olympics together, and the Republican debates. Both inspired yelling, though of different kinds.

  We could be impatient with one another—frustrated, exhausted, demoralized—but we also made one another laugh, broke hard news gently, kept our wits about us, and always stayed focused on the road ahead.

  It was grueling. Sometimes it wasn’t fun at all. But it was also wonderful.

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  Every day on the trail was packed with events: rallies, roundtables, interviews, fund-raisers, OTRs (“off-the-records,” or unannounced visits to shops, parks, libraries, schools, hospitals—really anywhere).

  When we landed in a city, we’d jump from event to event. Sometimes our “drive time” would stretch to an hour or more. To make the most of it, we would schedule radio interviews back to back. I’d also FaceTime with Charlotte, who was now old enough to kind of have a conversation with me. I’d cheer as she spun around in her tutu. We’d sing songs together. Then I’d blow kisses, hang up, and head off to another event.

  Rallies are a whole other world. It’s thrilling to hear a crowd cheer for you. It’s thrilling to hear them cheer for your ideas. But I’ll admit that no matter how many times I’ve stood before large crowds, it’s always a little daunting. Our rallies were diverse, boisterous, and happy—the kind of place you could bring your hundred-year-old mother or your one-year-old son. I loved seeing all the homemade posters kids would wave while smiling ear to ear. One of the best things about our campaign logo (the H with the → arrow) was that anyone can draw it, even little kids. We wanted children to spread out poster boards on their kitchen tables, grab markers and glitter pens, and go to town. They sent a lot of homemade H art to our campaign headquarters. We covered the walls with it.

  For the music at our rallies, we chose a lot of empowering women artists—Sara Bareilles, Andra Day, Jennifer Lopez, Katy Perry, and Rachel Platten—as well as songs from Marc Anthony, Stevie Wonder, Pharrell Williams, and John Legend and the Roots. We loved to see our crowds singing along to the music. To this day, I can’t hear “Fight Song,” “Roar,” or “Rise Up” without getting emotional.

  Some people came to our rallies again and again. I got to know a few of them. A woman named Janelle came with her husband and daughter to a rally in Iowa headlined by Katy Perry, the first of many she did for me. Janelle had a homemade sign: “Thirteenth Chemo Yesterday. Three More. Hear Me Roar!” She was in the process of fighting breast cancer. I was with Bill, and we walked over to introduce ourselves. We had a nice long talk. Over the next eleven months, I saw her many times. She’d visit me on the trail, update me on her health, and her daughter would tell me how second grade was going. Janelle kept promising me that she’d see me at my inauguration. I kept telling her I’d hold her to it and she’d better be there. For my second debate against Trump in Saint Louis, I invited her to come as my guest.

  My staff would bring groups of people backstage to meet me before I spoke, and those brief conversations were often very meaningful. I met a lot of women in their eighties and nineties who said how excited they were to finally vote for a woman for President. Many dressed up in pantsuits and pearls for the occasion. I imagined myself in thirty years, putting on nice clothes and going to hear my candidate speak. One, Ruline Steininger, even caucused for me in Iowa when she was 102 years old. She made it very clear that she was going to be around to vote for me on Election Day, and she was.

  At an event at a large arena in New Hampshire, I stepped into a side room before going out to speak and met a group of public school employees. One of them, a man named Keith, who worked in a school library, told me his story. Keith was his mother’s caregiver. She had Alzheimer’s disease. He couldn’t afford adult day care or a home health aide, so he had to bring his mom with him to work every day. That stopped me in my tracks. He got a little choked up talking to me, and I got a little choked up hearing it. I thanked him for sharing his story. Later, I told my policy staff, who were already working on plans for Alzheimer’s research and elder care, to think even bigger.

  On the rope lines at rallies, I encountered a feature of modern campaigning that has become far more prevalent since 2008: the selfie. There is no stopping the selfie. This is now how we mark a moment together. And to be clear, if you see me in the world and want a selfie and I’m not on the phone or racing to get somewhere, I’ll be glad to take one with you. But I think selfies come at a cost. Let’s talk instead! Do you have something to share? I want to hear it (provided it’s not deeply insulting—I have limits). I’d love to know your name and where you’re from and how things are going with you. That feels real to me. A selfie is so impersonal—although it does give your wrist a break from autographs, now obsolete.

  Roundtable events were special. As I mentioned earl
ier, they gave me a chance to hear directly from people in a setting in which they felt comfortable. Sometimes those conversations were searing. I met a ten-year-old girl in Las Vegas who took a deep breath and described in a trembling voice how terrified she was of her parents being deported because they were undocumented. Everyone in that room wanted to give her a hug, but I was the lucky one. She came over and sat on my lap as I said what I’d say to Chelsea whenever she was anxious as a little girl: Don’t you worry. Let me do the worrying for you. And also, you are very brave.

  We tried to make time for OTRs, seeing local sights and dropping by local businesses, whenever we could. If we were running late, these would be the first to fall off the schedule—all the more reason not to announce them, so no one would be disappointed if we couldn’t make it. My personal preference for an OTR was anywhere that sold kids’ toys, clothes, or books. I would load up on gear for my grandchildren and the new babies of friends and staffers. I also picked up little presents for Bill on the road: ties, shirts, cuff links, a watch. He loves nothing more than to get something neat from a craftsman somewhere in America. It’s just about his favorite thing.

  For me, fund-raisers were a little more complicated than other campaign events. Even after all these years, it’s hard for me to ask for other people’s money. It’s hard to ask someone to host an event for you in their home or business. But until the day comes that campaign finance reform is signed into law and upheld by the Supreme Court, if you want to run a viable national campaign, there’s no way around it: you’re going to have to do some serious fund-raising, online, by phone, by mail, and in person. I reject the idea that it’s impossible to do it while maintaining your integrity and independence. Bernie Sanders attacked me for raising money from people who worked in finance. But I reminded him that President Obama had raised more money from Wall Street than anyone in history, and that didn’t stop him from imposing tough new rules to curb risk and prevent future financial crashes. I would have done the same, and my donors knew it.

  I was grateful to everyone who gave money to our campaign or helped raise it. We tried hard to use every penny wisely. The campaign staff will attest that Robby Mook in particular was downright stingy about travel expenses and office supplies. Snack budget? Absolutely not. Buy your own chips. Your own hotel room? Not a chance. Find a roommate. And while you’re at it, take the bus instead of the train. We were all in this together: our fund-raising team working around the clock; our national campaign staff living and working on a tight budget; me, flying around the country going to fund-raisers; and our donors, opening their wallets to show their solidarity and support. Our campaign had more than three million donors. The average donation was under $100. And ours was the first campaign in history for which the majority of donors were women. That meant a lot to all of us.

  Sometimes we just needed to have some fun. One beautiful summer evening, Jimmy and Jane Buffett hosted a concert for us at their home in the Hamptons on Long Island. I was the first presidential candidate Jimmy ever endorsed, and he wanted to do something special for me. So he, Jon Bon Jovi, and Paul McCartney played a set in a tent full of twinkly lights, and everyone danced on the lawn under the stars. It was magical.

  But my favorite events were with kids. They’d sit cross-legged in front of me on the floor, or join me on a couch or drape themselves over chairs, and I’d answer their questions. “What’s your favorite part about running for President?” Meeting kids like you. “Who’s your favorite President?” With lots of love to Bill and President Obama, it’s Abraham Lincoln. “What are you going to do to protect the planet?” Reduce our carbon footprint, invest in clean energy, protect wildlife, and fight pollution. The children listened with great seriousness and asked follow-ups. They were my kind of crowd. They also sometimes told me what was worrying them: for instance, the death of a pet or a grandparent’s illness. Many kids asked what I would do about bullying, which made me want to become President even more. I had an initiative called Better Than Bullying ready to go.

  I had a lot of respect for the press corps who traveled with us. For the most part, it was comprised of “embeds”—journalists permanently “embedded” with us from the beginning of the campaign till the end. That meant they got to know us and we got to know them. A lot of the embeds were journalists in their late twenties and early thirties, which made this assignment a big opportunity for them. They worked as long and hard as we did. Some veteran reporters also joined us for stretches. Network anchors and big-time columnists would parachute in for interviews and a taste of the road, but they never stayed long.

  The traveling press corps asked tough questions. They were hungry. I had to admire that. With rare exceptions, they were also very professional. I can’t say we were completely comfortable with one another, though. As I write elsewhere in this book, I tend to treat journalists with caution, and I often feel like they focus too much on the wrong things. I understand that political coverage has to be about the horse race, but it’s become almost entirely about that and not about the issues that matter most to our country and to people’s lives. That’s something that has gotten increasingly worse over the years. That’s not entirely the press’s fault: the way we consume news has changed, which makes getting clicks all important, which in turn encourages sensationalism. Still, they’re responsible for their part.

  Having said that, I respected them. Once in a while, we’d go out for drinks or dinner as a group and have a wide-ranging, off-the-record talk. I’d bring Halloween candy and birthday cake back to their cabin on the plane. They’d sometimes roll oranges with questions written in Sharpie up the aisle and try to reach my seat all the way in front. Sometimes on night flights, we’d put on music and open the wine and beer. When any of them were sick or dealing with family problems—that happens during a long campaign—I’d ask Nick to keep me updated. Some of the journalists also started dating one another—that also happens during a long campaign—and since nothing makes me happier than playing matchmaker, I was always eager for the scoop. I also was delighted that many of the journalists assigned to our campaign were women. During the 1972 presidential campaign, the reporters who traveled with the candidates were called the boys on the bus. By 2016, it was the girls on the plane.

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  A lot of days and nights on the trail can blur into one another. You’d be surprised how many times we had to ask each other, “Were we in Florida or North Carolina yesterday?” It wasn’t out of the ordinary for two people to answer at once, but with different states. But some days stood out, for better or worse.

  One of the best days ever was November 2, 2016: game seven of the World Series, the night the Chicago Cubs made history. We were in Arizona for one of our final rallies. It was a big one: more than twenty-five thousand people came out. Before I went onstage, I asked for an update on the game. It was the top of the sixth inning. The Cubs led the Cleveland Indians 5–3. Gulp.

  Like everyone in Cubs Nation, I had been following the playoffs and the series with all my fingers crossed. I started watching Cubs games with my dad when I was a little girl, sitting on his lap or on the floor near his chair in the den. We’d cheer and groan, and at the end of the season, we’d say, “Next year, we’ll win the Series!” (To assuage my disappointment, I also became a Yankees fan. It didn’t feel disloyal, because they were in the other league.)

  Some people on my staff were fans, too—no one more than Connolly, who, like me, grew up outside Chicago. She carried a huge W flag with her on the road, and every time the Cubs won, putting them one step closer to their first world championship in 108 years, she draped it on the bulkhead of the plane or wore it like a cape. Whenever we could, we watched the games together, holding our breath.

  That night in Arizona, when the rally was over, the first thing I asked was “Who won?” No one yet. The score was 6–6 in the ninth inning. We had a fifteen-minute drive back to the hotel. But that meant maybe missing the end of the game. W
e couldn’t risk it. Instead, Philippe, who was traveling with us for the final stretch, pulled it up on his iPad, and we all stood around him to watch, standing on a section of grass in the parking lot. Capricia Marshall, one of my close friends and the former Chief of Protocol at the State Department, was there too. She’s from Cleveland and is a big Indians fan, so she did some trash-talking.

  Following an anxiety-inducing rain delay, the game went into extra innings. We stayed put in the parking lot. When Chicago recorded the final out in the bottom of the tenth to edge the Indians 8–7, Connolly was the happiest I’ve ever seen her. I reached for that W flag, and we stretched it out between us and took a million photos. Then we drove back to the hotel, ordered a bunch of food to my hotel suite, and watched the highlight reel—especially reliever Mike Montgomery’s game-winning save, which he pulled off with a giant smile on his face, like he had all the confidence in the world that he was about to make our dreams come true.

  A much less fun day was September 11, 2016, the day I was sick at the National September 11 Memorial Museum. It means a lot to me to commemorate that solemn day, so missing this event wasn’t an option. But I felt awful. I’d been fighting a cough from what I thought was allergies for at least a month and saw my internist, Dr. Lisa Bardack, on September 9. She told me the cough was actually pneumonia, and I should take a few days off. I said I couldn’t. She gave me strong antibiotics, and I went on with my schedule, including filming Between Two Ferns with comic Zach Galifianakis that afternoon. The next day, I stuck to a scheduled debate prep session. On Sunday, when I got to the memorial, the sun was beaming down. My head ached. You know the rest.