I have such fond memories of the Governor's Cup 5K, a race I ran every year as a youngster in my Montana hometown. This one, probably circa 1980 or '81, would have followed a predictable strategy... go like a bat outta heckfire at the gun, eventually settle into a comfortable jog, and then kick like a stubborn mule the last 200 yards into the finish chute.
Man I loved the kick. Those last steps, with a crowd imagined to be something on the order of a million, transformed this little kid into a giant.
Some things never change.