FORD: CONCILIATORY AND CONFIDENT

The two men had so much in common--Midwestern origins, conservative instincts, self-made careers--and yet seemed so far apart. Now that they were down to the climactic moment, what were the moods and attitudes of the Republican contenders? To find out, TIME asked its correspondents who have followed them most closely in the campaign. Strobe Talbott reported on Gerald Ford and Dean Fischer on Ronald Reagan (see box next page).

Jerry Ford, conscientious but not herculean, competent but not brilliant, solid, self-confident, good-natured and decent but not at all spellbinding, the same old Jerry Ford--that is the image that he will project to the delegates in Kansas City this week. His critics complain he has failed to grow dramatically in stature or skill in the job that he holds and wants to keep. His friends compliment him for avoiding the pomposity, the paranoia and the isolation that have been occupational hazards for some of his predecessors. Both the critics and the friends are right. Ford is remarkably unchanged by 24 months in the presidency and nearly a year of grueling battle for the nomination.

"The awesome loneliness of the presidency," a time-honored cliche of the White House press corps, has fallen into disuse because it ill-suits Ford's style and personality. Several weeks ago, after a delegate-wooing expedition to Mississippi, he headed back to Washington on Air Force One. His private lounge exuded more homey comfort than overwhelming power. Ford was in his shirtsleeves, filling and fiddling with his pipe. His olive was high and dry on the ice cubes at the bottom of his martini glass. The bulkheads were decorated with an array of David Kennerly's color photos of the Ford children. All that was missing to complete the scene was a cedar log crackling in a fireplace.

Ford had something charitable to say about almost everyone. He was effusive about John Connally, conciliatory about Ronald Reagan and confident about the advantages of going against Jimmy Carter as an underdog in the fall. He seemed eager to forget politics altogether and instead to reminisce about Raymond ("Ducky") Pond, the colorful Yale varsity football mentor under whom he worked as an assistant coach and scout from 1935 to 1940.

Back in Washington, too, the President has kept in close touch with his past, athletic and otherwise. He meets regularly with cronies from Grand Rapids and Capitol Hill, and on July 31, he took time out from the slogging quest for delegates to give a luncheon reunion for his law school Phi Delta Phi fraternity brothers. After rising at 6 o'clock, he pedals the equivalent of a mile astride a stationary bicycle upstairs in the White House, and he ends the working day by swimming 22 laps, or one-quarter mile, in the pool behind the West Wing of the Executive mansion.

Ford often laughs at the stumblebum jokes that are a staple of political comics. They do not bother him, partly because he is an extraordinarily secure personality --and partly because he knows he is the most coordinated and best preserved tenant of the White House since Teddy Roosevelt. Ford walked into a staff meeting the other day bragging about the 94 that he had shot at the tough Congressional Country Club course, site of last week's PGA Tournament. "I parred five holes," he proudly announced to aides assembled to discuss the weighty affairs of the world.

In a primary battle that has been fraught with frustration and setbacks, Ford has experienced one personal satisfaction that may prove to be a political asset as well: the blossoming of his son Jack, 24, as a savvy political counselor and campaigner. Father and son often huddle in the study off the Oval Office in the afternoon and over drinks in the third-floor solarium late in the evening, Ford still in his impeccably tailored three-piece suit and Jack in blue jeans and jogging shoes.

Their conversations lately have turned to the acceptance address Ford has been working out with his speechwriting staff. The President, who has reviewed all 14 acceptance speeches from both parties since 1948, has tentatively decided to come out swinging, with an oldfashioned, give-'em-hell partisan stem-winder. Rather than concentrating on making peace with Reagan, he probably will try to unite the party by declaring war on Jimmy Carter. Some of his advisers have urged him to recognize his shortcomings as a campaigner, to remain "presidential" and above the fray in the fall and to let his running mate lead the charge against the Democrats. But two years on the job have ignited a fire in Ford's belly, and he is strongly inclined to reject that advice. Not that he is unaware of his shortcomings, but he accepts them along with his homely strengths.

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