Tim Johnson proved doubters wrong until he had nothing left to prove

Former political opponents, Republican U.S. Sen. John Thune, left, and Democratic U.S. Sen. Tim Johnson, both of South Dakota, watch as the Base Closure and Realignment Commission votes to save South Dakota's Ellsworth Air Force Base on Aug. 26, 2005, in Arlington, Virginia. (Mark Wilson/)

Tim Johnson described us as a couple of "old codgers" that day in the spring of 2013, as we spoke whimsically about politics and life and campaigns won and, well, won.

Because Johnson never lost a campaign , including that nationally prominent U.S. Senate race in 2002, which we'll get to in a minute.

For now, though, let's consider that impromptu old-codgers meeting, which actually included a third old codger named Al Van Zee, a veteran TV reporter of sonorous voice and engaging news recollections.

Van Zee and I had joined other reporters for a news conference in Johnson's Rapid City field office where, among other things, Johnson discussed his earlier announcement that he would not seek a fourth term in the U.S. Senate.

After the news conference, the young reporters scurried off to make their deadlines. But Van Zee and I lingered, as old-codger reporters tend to do, enjoying the opportunity to chat with one of the state's most prominent newsmakers before his next scheduled obligation.

Johnson was seated comfortably enough in an electric scooter, which had become part of his life since a brain hemorrhage in 2006 that nearly killed him and left him with speech and mobility challenges. His wife, Barbara, was at his side, smiling, listening intently and occasionally sharing wise perspective.

Van Zee asked what the Democratic senator would not miss about running for office. "Fundraising," Johnson said without pause. And who could blame him? Who likes asking people for money?

It sure wasn't part of Tim Johnson's nature. Neither were the gregarious necessities of campaigning. He was a bit of an introvert, even more of a policy wonk, and serious enough in his demeanor that a friend of mine referred to him as Senator Grumpy.

Johnson wasn't really grumpy. But he was far from a natural in the grinning, glad-handing outreach of "retail politics."

Fellow South Dakota Democrat Tom Daschle, an Aberdeen kid who rose to become Democratic leader in the U.S. Senate, seemed energized by the sidewalk sales of a political campaign. So did John Thune, a lanky Republican from Murdo who served three terms in the U.S. House before challenging Johnson for his Senate seat in 2002.

Natural or not, Johnson was a smart, effective campaigner who had never lost an election going into that 2002 campaign. The Vermillion lawyer won two terms in the South Dakota House of Representatives, two terms in the state Senate and five straight terms in the U.S. House.

Then there was his big win over three-term Republican U.S. Sen. Larry Pressler in 1996, which made Johnson a bit of a political rock star, albeit a reluctant one. It also made him the incumbent senator going into that 2002 race. Yet some, including me, doubted that he could beat a rising GOP star like Thune in a heavily Republican state.

Johnson proved me and other doubters wrong, just barely, topping Thune by a razor-thin margin of 524 votes. It was a feat he liked to bring up with me from time to time, as he did during our old-codgers meeting in his office that day in 2013.

"You didn't think I would win that one, did you?" he said with a mischievous smile.

Despite his generally staid personality, Johnson could be mischievous. He could be tough, too. Oh, so tough. He showed that in his politics, but even more so in his personal life.

Johnson's recovery from the brain hemorrhage, his return to the Senate and successful 2008 campaign for a third six-year term was probably the greatest act of courage I have seen by a South Dakota politician.

When I heard last week that the 77-year-old Johnson had died, I thought about that inspiring 2008 campaign, something political consultant Steve Jarding saw close up as Johnson's campaign manager. He got the job just two days before the senator's brain hemorrhage.

"It was just stunning," Jarding says. "We had just had the meeting and the handshake two days earlier, and Tim had said 'You're my man.' And then, suddenly, we didn't know if he would live."

Johnson did more than just live. He came back after a complicated surgery and a medically induced coma to begin the slow, grueling process of recovery and rehabilitation that would take him back to his Senate duties and on into the 2008 reelection campaign.

Each day was a struggle for Johnson and an inspiration for those around him, including Jarding.

"It would have been so easy for him to say 'No, I've done enough. This is too hard,'" Jarding says. "It was painful just to watch him go through it. But clearly he had a greater calling. He was proud of what he had done and knew he could do more."

So Johnson ran and won and served, something he had been doing since his first state legislative campaign in 1978. When he decided not to run in 2014, some wondered if he was intimidated by the possibility of a matchup with former Republican Gov. Mike Rounds, who ended up winning the Senate seat that year.

Johnson? Intimidated by a difficult challenge? Hardly, Jarding says.

"Tim didn't think that way. He never seemed to be intimidated by anybody. And he was just so tough," Jarding says. "I just think he just thought it was time. It was really hard, getting to the Senate early, being there all day. Traveling. He wanted to prove that he could come back, win another term and do the work. And he did that. He felt good about it. He didn't have anything left to prove."

So Johnson retired on his own terms never having lost an election, including that big one in 2002 — the one I didn't think he could win.

Which was something he liked to remind me of from time to time, one old codger to another.