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Running for governor is like going to heaven: Everyone seems to want to do it, but few want to do what it takes to get there.

 
My run for governor started officially on July 7, 2009, and 


The careful preparations of supporters, a statewide campaign road tour and financing efforts paid huge early dividends, and I was declared the front runner. Sixty- to 80-hour-work weeks followed. Hundreds of events, small and large, were organized: meet-and-greets with delegates; fundraisers with donors; media stops; forums and debates with opponents; GOP picnics and events; county fairs, community festivals and more.

 at the 2009 GOP State Convention, my campaign was riding high. More work and preparations pushed me to first place with a bit over 50 percent of the Republican vote on the night of 

 
The inhuman hours took a toll. I was home about one day per week from October until my defeat at the 2010 endorsing convention on April 30.  There are prison inmates who see their children more than I was seeing mine. My wife, who should be canonized for sainthood, dealt with being alone six days per week, taking care of our beautiful kids Brittany and Braxton, working full time and overtime, keeping the house together and dealing with the outside pressures of having a husband running for the state's highest office.

 
Regarding voter participation, something felt different this year. Many of the delegates selected at the February caucuses and later to the state convention were unusually new.  Many at the meet-and-greets proudly told me, "I am not a Republican" -- which seemed odd, because they were becoming delegates to the state Republican convention. Many declared me a career politician, because I had served 14 years in the Minnesota House of Representatives, three years as the top Republican. 
 
 
At many meetings I heard unusual questions and statements:

 
"What can you do to get the United States back on the gold standard?" 

 
"Pawlenty is a RINO [Republican in Name Only] and I think you're too close to him."

 
"You have terrific ideas and solutions, but are too bald to win a statewide office."

 
The party convention had a makeup and feel different from others I had attended. As many as 40 percent of the people were new to the convention process, and many didn't really consider themselves Republicans.

 
Eventually I discovered that party regulars like Bruce Coddington of Litchfield, who had been a state delegate for four decades or more, was denied a spot to the 2010 convention because he supported me. He was a World War II veteran and a very active Republican.  Some of the delegates from his county were former members of the 

 and voted as a block to take every single delegate slot. 


It happened in other places: Marv Howatt, a former GOP chairman in Wabasha County, couldn't even land an alternate slot because he supported me. Bill Whitbeck of Minneapolis, who had been a GOP State Central Committee member for about 60 years, couldn't get a delegate slot either.

 
This is not a lament over losing, but rather an explanation of how the political game is played with Minnesota caucuses: The world belongs to those who show up, and in greater numbers. Organizing counts. I give Tom Emmer's supporters great credit for making use of the assets they had. Supporters of the 

 had a huge impact on the state convention, more than anyone knows, especially in Twin Cities delegations.  The process was fair from all observations. The state party leadership team kept above the fray and ran a great convention.

 
The decision to end my campaign early, after the second ballot, was mine alone. 


When I made the decision, my wife was in our hospitality room and my staff was scattered. There were 20,000 pieces of literature in my "war room" that could have been distributed across the convention (10 separate pieces, multiplied by 2,000 delegates). Some were tough on my opponent and others were complimentary of me. We never handed them out.


It was time for me to make a decision. I could hand out hit pieces, slog it out, maybe deadlock the convention and try to climb up or beat the opposition down. But that would not have been the best for the cause or for the state. Besides, I needed my total to rise by about 16 percentage points to reach the 60 percent needed to win; Tom Emmer simply needed 4 percentage points. 


Math and politics collided in my head. Although I had piled up over 100,000 additional miles on my vehicles, had campaign debts to pay, had lost 17 pounds, had hundreds of diehard supporters ready to fight and had spent 60 to 80 hours per week since the previous June trying to gain the endorsement, I felt the need to concede. 
 

The endless drives from Marshall to the Twin Cities and everywhere else ran through my mind. I live three to five hours from any major city in the state. Only someone who lives that far away can know the toll it takes on one's body and family. 


I can't explain why I conceded when I did.  The tellers told me that they would have been able to count the third ballot and privately tell me the results before I needed to make any decision or announcement. Nonetheless, I marched to the stage and conceded before the third ballot was collected.

 
No one in politics is ever called classy unless he loses and/or leaves. I decided to do both. I quickly endorsed Tom Emmer and asked my supporters to do the same. My endorsement was not fake or half-hearted, but genuine and hearty.

 
Taking the stage and looking over the crowd, I saw diehard Seifert supporters in tears, which made me melt. I couldn't spot my wife, kids, mom or the loyal staffers who labored so hard on my behalf. That probably was a blessing in disguise to help me keep composure after a grueling campaign.

 
Two days later, after mass on Sunday, my wife Traci and I took Brittany and Braxton to Sioux Falls -- the closest "big town" to where we live -- and played games at Chuck E. Cheese's, saw a movie and had a great buffet dinner. 

 
When I snuggled with Braxton, our 5 year old, that night, he said, "Daddy, this was the best day ever. I am so glad you lost."

 
I now realize that I'd had my worst and best days, rolled into one weekend.  

 
Since my loss, colleagues of both parties in the Legislature have said they haven't seen me so carefree or smiling so much since my first term, 14 years ago. There's a reason for everything, and I think there is a reason this race turned out the way it did.

 
For Marty Seifert the person, the dad and the husband, the best days are yet to come.

 
Marty Seifert, R- Marshall, is a member of the Minnesota House of Representatives.

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In politics, no one calls you classy unless you lose or leave. He did both.

Running for governor? Get ready for inhuman hours, wonderful supporters, and unhelpful observations about your hair

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