Most of his constituents were fast asleep on a peaceful Sunday morning when Antonio Villaraigosa zoomed full-throttle into another frenzied day.
The 41st mayor of Los Angeles sprinted to the finish line of a 5K race in Exposition Park -- pumping his fist in the air as he left his police bodyguard in the dust.
Then -- after mugging for photos, signing autographs and a quick shower at home -- he dashed to the West Angeles Cathedral in the Crenshaw district, where the African American congregation greeted him like royalty.
"Giving honor to God and you, my brothers and sisters," he declared from the podium in an impromptu address.
By 2 p.m., he'd made it to the Westside. There he donned a black yarmulke and turned reflective for a somber Holocaust memorial, reminding folks that he'd been coming for 13 straight years.
Before the day's marathon was over, Villaraigosa spoke at an Armenian genocide ceremony, grabbed dinner with President Bush near Palm Springs and crashed a late-night birthday party in Burbank for his buddy, actor George Lopez.
And this was a light day.
As a candidate in 2005, Villaraigosa promised to bring new punch to the mayor's office. Ten months into the job, skeptics may ridicule his plans to take over the public schools or condemn his trash-fee hike to pay for more police. But even they concede the obvious: Villaraigosa has delivered on his promise to energize City Hall.
With barely an interruption, the 53-year-old mayor has spent the past year barnstorming his native Los Angeles in a one-man charm offensive that feels alternately like a nonstop political campaign and a mad adventure to unite a city of strangers. It's an unyielding pursuit of the city's loyalty, one citizen at a time.
Villaraigosa's workaholic habits put him in good company. New York's Michael R. Bloomberg and Chicago's Richard M. Daley, for instance, are regarded as energetic champions of their big cities. But even these chief executives usually check out by late evening. For Villaraigosa, dinner is just another stop in the middle of a long day.
Villaraigosa's schedule is so punishing that he wears out aides (one calls the pace "insane") and worries friends, who fret that his breakneck pace will burn him out. His family also pays a price. Villaraigosa and his wife, Corina, a public school administrator, have two teenage children. But quality time these days often means a phone call from the car. "We're ships passing in the night," the mayor said of the time he spends with his wife.
