The North Korea work spilled over into a dramatic series of events in the first week of Richardson's tenure as governor in 2003, when a delegation of North Korean diplomats made an unheard-of trip to the governor's mansion in Santa Fe. A nuclear standoff with the United States seemed imminent, and the North Koreans, experts figured, went to talk with the one American they knew well.

A new governor could hardly have asked for better press. For three days a herd of national reporters camped out on Richardson's driveway as word of phone calls between Richardson and then Secretary of State Colin Powell became the gossip of the day. From time to time Richardson would step out to greet reporters, the "serious governor" mask firmly in place. "I'm a governor of a small state, I'm not an ambassador," he said, to little effect. That no one took him seriously did not seem to bother him.

Since then, Richardson has never had to try very hard to get the attention of the media, local or national. And despite the negative press he got as a suspected leaker of classified information about former Los Alamos scientist Wen Ho Lee (a leak Richardson vigorously denies), he appears to genuinely like reporters; he jokes with them and seems unconcerned about appearances. A common Richardson move at a press conference is to drag his staff from the back of the room up to the microphone to answer technical questions. "Get up here, help me," he'll bark. "I'm a policy guy, not a numbers guy."

Other times he'll get more physical. Many reporters covering Richardson have received his signature head butt in the middle of a question, in which a looming Richardson (he is well over 6 feet tall) leans in slowly and gently knocks the reporter's noggin with his own. And if seated across from a reporter, he might edge out a loafered toe to stamp on the reporter's shoe. "Does that hurt?" he'll ask with mock concern.

Sometimes he is more direct. I can recall at least two occasions on which Richardson flipped me the bird across a press conference table. Catching my eye as others spoke, he slowly put his middle finger up to his eye, as if to scratch an itch. It was like taking notes from a frat boy.

For a big guy, Richardson loves to keep moving, an image that has both helped and hurt him in sparsely populated New Mexico. It helps him when constituents see a hands-on governor whose Clintonian habit of responding to every publicized issue keeps him in touch. This tactic is an old one for Richardson, who set a Guinness world record for number of hands shaken in a day during his 2002 governor's race. The tactic evolved, he says, from being a new guy on the political scene way back in the late 1970s.

"I felt the only way I might make a dent was to talk to as many people as I possibly could, to actually touch as many people as I could," he said. "I found that voters liked that, to try to connect, even if they didn't agree with your policy positions."

Throughout his congressional tenure and now as governor, Richardson has continued his in-your-face style of political communication. "I'm basically saying, Here I am, what's on your mind, let's talk," Richardson says. "We've actually made important policy decisions that way." He walks away from these meetings with his pockets filled with scraps of paper people have given him. He collects them in plastic baggies and hands them to staff later, as problems for them to solve.

But when he operates in a way that contrasts starkly with the expectations of old-fashioned New Mexicans, his desire to be omnipresent hurts him. Richardson travels with a thick gaggle of staff, usually in a large luxury SUV like a Cadillac Escalade or a Lincoln Navigator. He (or, more accurately, his driver) has now been caught speeding in state vehicles so many times, by press and police, that he made a pledge this summer to travel the speed limit.

When not on the highway, Richardson takes to the air, flying a $5.5 million jet that, while approved by the state Legislature, has nonetheless opened him up to criticism from New Mexico's Republican Party. A radio ad produced by the party makes fun of his fancy plane, which is outfitted with a wet bar and leather seats. The ad, which played in New Hampshire during a Richardson trip there earlier this summer, asks: "Is it P. Diddy? Britney Spears? No, it's Governor Bill Richardson."

New Mexico Republicans, who are still looking for a candidate to take on Richardson in the 2006 race, are happy to have this P.R. gift. "He's been beating himself up -- we've just been pointing it out," says Marta Kramer, executive director of the New Mexico GOP.

The "King Bill" shtick so far has been the best angle of attack local Republicans have against Richardson, who typically outmaneuvers the party in public policy debates. "It appeared to me as if this governor was getting such a pass by the press," Kramer says. That began to shift a bit after the party's attack ads, she says. Articles in the state's dailies now more frequently question Richardson's plane, the size of his staff and his conduct (e.g., speeding, rubbing elbows with celebrities, hogging TV time, smoking cigars in nonsmoking buildings).

"This is a governor who spends lavishly and has an indulgent lifestyle," Kramer says. "He thinks he's above the law." That judgment is, so far, the best thing Republicans have. Although they correctly assert that he has raised taxes as much as or more than he has lowered them, the criticism just hasn't stuck. Over the past three years, Richardson has enraged New Mexico conservatives by picking up kudos from outlets like the Cato Institute, Forbes Magazine and the Wall Street Journal's editorial board.

"It's not that Richardson walks on water," says Joe Monahan, a New Mexico political commentator. "Sometimes, you're blessed with an incompetent opponent."

Richardson beats the Republican rap by using the time-honored tactic of message repetition. He isn't afraid to tell reporters, whether they asked or not, that he is a "tax-cutting Democrat." And then repeat it.

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