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I’m as nervous as a teenage boy getting ready for his first date.

For the first time in months, my car is clean and has a full tank of gas. I only hope that it doesn’t smell like week-old coffee — and that the birds steer clear of the windows.

I’m anxious because I’m responsible for getting John Irving from the airport to his hotel.

Yeah, the novelist John Irving. The author of “The World According to Garp,” “A Prayer for Owen Meany” and “The Cider House Rules.”

He’s practically the Bruce Springsteen of the literary world.

So yeah, I’m just a little nervous. OK, make that a lot.

Irving is flying in for the day to talk about writing at UNCG.

Since his time here is so short, my only shot at an interview — if you can call it that — is to deliver him to his hotel.

Then, maybe, hopefully, we can talk in between reps while he works out in the hotel gym.

That is, if I don’t kill him on the way there.

He published his first book, “Setting Free the Bears,” when he was just 26.

His fourth book, “The World According to Garp,” launched Irving to literary superstardom.

Although I became familiar with his work only within the past year, it’s hard not to be a little starstruck by the prospect of meeting such a literary giant.

But Irving looks like a regular guy in my car.

He’s wearing faded jeans, loafers and a yellow North Face button-down shirt — in addition to his seatbelt.

He smells like fresh minty gum.

His brown eyes are warm.

He looks at you when he talks.

His voice is a bit hoarse, and when he tells a story, he uses pauses like punctuation.

I’m listening so hard for the next word that I hardly breathe.

Bryan Boulevard. Holden Road. Green Valley Road.

Mission accomplished.

I managed to get Irving directly to the O. Henry Hotel, uninjured.

I’m feeling wobbly with relief, and in need of coffee. And a deep breath.

We agree to meet at the gym in about 20 minutes.

Hey, we were supposed to meet 20 minutes ago.

What happened? Had my driving scared him? Or was it me?

He finally shows up, wearing sneakers and black workout gear. He apologizes for being late. There was a crisis.

Irving’s been working out every day since he was 14. It’s something he does, even as he travels, so I’m not the first reporter to interview him in this setting.

Irvingphiles know that he has two passions: writing and wrestling.

And at 66, he’s still slim-hipped and solid. The names of his wife and three sons are tattooed across the front of his taut biceps: Janet, Brendan, Colin and Everett. The elaborate script of their names bend and expand with each bicep curl and tricep extension.

He got the tattoos while researching his last novel, 2005’s “Until I Find You.” It’s a story about Jack Burns, whose mother is a famous tattoo artist.

He doesn’t think he’ll get any more tattoos. Unless it’s the names of his grandchildren.

He’s just straddled the stationary bike.

Irving’s writing process, he explains, sounding just a bit winded, has changed little through the years.

He still writes longhand and uses a typewriter. He always writes the last line of a novel first, and the story evolves from there.
He discusses the parallels between his own life and that of Burns, the main character of “Until I Find You.” It’s a book that comes closest to reflecting his own life, he says.

Burns never knew his father. Neither did Irving.

Burns became a well-known actor, imagining that his father would one day see him. When Irving wrestled, he often imagined his father in the stands, watching him.

Burns was seduced by an older woman when he was 10. Irving was 11 when an older woman sexually abused him.

Like Burns, Irving is also drawn to the stage. As a child, his mother was a stage prompter. Had he not become a writer, he would have considered acting.

The thing is, actors can only portray one character. Writers get to be all of them.

About an hour later, he has biked, ellipticalled and jogged through an oral evolution of many of his books. Though a bit winded, he’s barely broken a sweat.

Our time is up.

At some point in our visit, I noticed something: I stopped being a nervous, awestruck fan. I was just a reporter, interviewing a subject. A person. A writer. Someone who, like me, lives in a world of characters.

For a day, Irving was one of mine.

Contact Tina Firesheets at 373-3498 or tina.firesheets@news-record.com