Motivations vary; the goal is the same

They're brewing coffee at midnight, and the smell cuts through the hot, stale Media office where seven people in their 20s are prepping for the mission. Fueled by Red Bull, cigarettes, potato chips, and chocolate bars, they are in their final days to help their candidate, U.S. Rep. Joe Sestak, who faces U.S. Sen. Arlen Specter in Tuesday's Democratic primary.

"One-hundred and nineteen hours left," Tom McDonald, 24, says.

Ask him when he sleeps, McDonald laughs. His father brought him a change of clothes Friday, he says as a woman drops a fresh pack of Marlboros on his desk and hands a gift basket containing Moon Pies, to the others in the room.

It's the time of year when college-age and middle-age volunteers pile into cars, giggling, and head out to transform a grassy highway median into a political billboard overnight, when people knock on a thousand doors and cold-call voters for hours on end in the hopes of grabbing even one extra vote.

The dedication of campaign workers in the hours before the polls open stands in stark contrast to the rest of the electorate, especially in a primary with no presidential candidates. Even in 2006, when Pennsylvania had relatively high voter turnout for an off-year primary, only one in five voters bothered to cast a ballot.

Different motivations drive campaign workers. For some, it's a foundation for a career in campaigns or a wager made hoping that someday the candidate returns the favor with a job. For others, it may be an addiction to politics formed decades earlier, or the starry-eyed first love of a candidate or cause.

For some, it's the genuine belief that even in an age of cynicism and spin, their efforts make a difference.

"Yesterday I canvassed for an hour and several people said, 'You know, you changed my vote,' " said Dan Loeb, 44, a Wynnewood mathematician who spent two hours knocking on doors Tuesday to help Manan Trivedi, a Democrat seeking his party's nomination in the Sixth Congressional District. Loeb said voters told him, "Just the fact that you came out here and you're a volunteer, that makes a big difference to me."

This isn't Loeb's first rodeo. He volunteered to help Barack Obama's 2008 candidacy, traveling to West Virginia to knock on doors and even making a few calls to registered voters in Guam. This time, he's trying to help Trivedi, a Berks County physician, in his race against Doug Pike, a former Inquirer editorial writer.

Last week, Loeb walked up and down Montgomery Avenue in Ardmore, his brown jacket weighed down with stacks of fliers in the pockets, his arms tangled in a mass of lawn signs.

A steady rain began, but Loeb didn't mind. Rain gets you "pity points" at voters' doors, he joked.

Most didn't answer his knock or buzz, so Loeb stuck fliers in doors and moved on. Some who answered were in a rush and couldn't talk. Others looked at him quizzically.

"Is there an election next week?" one woman asked.

An elderly woman greeted Loeb with a smile, the smell of pot roast wafting from her kitchen. She took his flier and told him she'd read it over - then told him to stay warm.

At the end of his long, wet trudge, he managed to unload two signs near train tracks.

"The rain actually helps with this part," Loeb said as he worked the metal signposts into the dirt. "The ground is much softer."

Candidates without opponents on Tuesday are still campaigning, but at a mellower pace. Some pay it forward for another campaign, hoping to earn goodwill in the fall.

In Delaware County, Republican Patrick Meehan, running for Congress in the Seventh District, expects to face Democrat Bryan Lentz in the fall. But because Meehan has no primary fight, his volunteers were calling Johnstown, Pa., last week to help fellow Republican Tim Burns in a special election to fill the late John Murtha's seat in Congress.

Ed McKinney, 50, a real estate agent and accountant, hunched over a list of phone numbers. He was the last man standing in the office at 10 minutes to 9 Wednesday night, and he'd already called more than 80 people.

"Hello, my name is Ed McKinney and I'm calling as a volunteer to remind you to vote in the May 18 special election," he said into the phone. "We're supporting Tim Burns."

When an annoyed female voice replied that it was the third call she'd received that night, he quipped, "Oh! But I wanted to be the first!"

McKinney's humor seemed to defuse the ire of many he called that night.

He never thought he'd like this sort of thing but he's discovered that many people are excited to talk politics, even with a stranger.

"I just love talking to people, and I think I get a good response," he said.

As for competitive races, there's not a hotter one now than Specter vs. Sestak.

In the basement of a Center City union hall, several dozen Specter supporters stuffed field packets Friday night while watching the Flyers game on two large TVs. The packets contained maps and lists of voters for campaign workers hitting the streets this weekend.

The lists contained addresses of voters who'd voiced support for Specter three times. A knock on the door this weekend would mark the campaign's fourth contact.

"It's all about repetition," said Micah Mahjoubian, the campaign's Philadelphia political director.

Downstairs, a buffet courtesy of the union fueled volunteers with prime rib, salmon, and big peeled shrimp. Gov. Rendell stopped by. Campaign workers planned to stay until midnight.

Victoria Perrone, 20, of Wallingford, had come up from college in Washington with a friend to work for Specter this weekend. "I like doing door to door better than phone calls," she said.

The night before, two Sestak volunteers were in a maroon Volvo, on their mission: to bury the medians of Route 1 in Delaware County with signs.

Steve McDonald, Tom's father, a computer salesman who first volunteered for Democrat George McGovern's presidential campaign in 1972, sat scrunched in the backseat with 10 signs.

Barbara Moore, a real estate agent, drove, pulling over so McDonald could jump out to plant signs as cars flew by and the Volvo shuddered.

Many signs put up in the last several weeks didn't survive a day.

After they'd placed more than 20 signs on Route 1 from Media to Upper Darby, Moore retraced their drive to see whether the first signs they'd placed were still standing.

"Yay!" Moore shouted. "They lasted a whole hour!"

A minute later, McDonald pressed one last sign into the ground. Rushing back to the car, he said, "It's only got to last five days."