Diffidence and demoralisation signalled the undoing of Fine Gael in 2002. Memories of that horrendous campaign still haunt the party. From the outset, all but the most blinkered of Blueshirts shared a sense of impending doom.
Defeat came as no surprise: it was the catastrophic scale of the collapse that was so devastating.
Watching Enda Kenny as he tore through country towns yesterday like a man possessed, it was hard not to conclude he is overcompensating for the abject failure of his predecessor to make any connection with the electorate the last time out.
It's as if he is fighting two elections - trying to atone for past failures, while striving to convince voters that he has what it takes to lead Fine Gael back to that distant land they once called government.
The faster he runs, the more distance he puts between his party and the embarrassment of the last election. The faster he runs, the quicker people will forget. The faster he runs, the less chance there will be for awkward questions.
And if he runs fast enough, he might even outpace Bertie.
Enda is wearing a pedometer on his waistband. If reporters ask he'll pull aside his jacket and let them marvel at the reading.
"Three thousand, eight hundred and forty nine?" repeats Enda. "It's going up! Fine Gael is going up!" In terms of putting a figurehead out front and pushing the man and his personality above all else, Fine Gael is fighting a presidential-style campaign. But there is nothing presidential in the shameless manner of Enda's pitch.
As his highly successful rival Bertie knows, dignity and reserve go out the window once you hit the hustings. When you can stride through the ladies' lingerie department and accost a woman with a bra in her hand; when you can gaze lovingly into the glassy eye of a turbot while the fishmonger beams beside you; when you can wrench a squalling infant from her pram and not get arrested, then you have what it takes.
It may be toe-curlingly embarrassing to disinterested observers, but it has to be done.
Enda is doing it, and his footsoldiers have fallen in behind him with an enthusiasm they can't quite believe themselves.
How is it playing with the public? The media cynics bussed around in his wake will stand back and sneer. Enda knows that. So does Bertie Ahern. But column inches in the nationals can't compare with those happy pictures in the local press of the day the election roadshow blew into town.
While the Taoiseach did his bit in Stormont, striding into the history books in front of the world's cameras, Enda was in Portlaoise delivering an old-style oration to his troops. As they cheered and fought over FG baseball caps, their leader told them to get out and fight for votes.
"G'wan Inda" they roared, bunching up in front of him, fizzing with excitement. "Make it look good for RTÉ," urged a man in a cap, "push up there for God's sake!" Local workers were anxious to point out their campaign trophy. "There's Tom Mulhall, the man who used to put up the big PD posters for Tom Parlon. He returned to us about three weeks ago." Enda's zeal for pressing the flesh borders on the manic. He runs into shops and banks, he accosts people taking money out of ATMs, he is incapable of passing a butcher's shop or a chemist.
The fixation with these last two establishments is puzzling. But then the answer comes to you: it's all to do with women. Enda is very good with the women. If they have children in tow, that's a bonus, and he pulls them in to get their photos taken and reminds them to put on a big smile for the camera.
He grabs mammy's hand, puts an arm around her shoulders and looks into her eyes. They blush and simper: "Hello, Inda!" And they'll remember the moment he connected, and tell their friends.
He's gone in seconds, already reaching for the next hand to grip or the next arm to pummel.
There's a slightly hysterical air to it all. "All right, all right, all right, all right," he repeats, clapping his hands together, racing out one door and spinning on his heels to go in another.
He's been to Tullamore, Portlaoise, Birr and now he's at the social services centre in Ballinasloe. A large elderly group are waiting, waving flags, already in high spirits thanks to the band. In no time at all, Enda is waltzing a lady around the room.
Local deputy Paul Connaughton is beside himself with delight, dancing on his own like a man demented, tongue lolling out. He doesn't have his leader's sense of rhythm, but he doesn't care. Only one leg seems to be in tune with the music, so he goes around in circles.
In Athenry, Enda climbs up on a dumper truck. "Like Boris Yeltsin on the tank," he exclaims, as party supporters fall around the place. Enda's one-liners are chronic, but they crack up his people every time.
He is always aware of the cameras. If one is held up, and he isn't holding a voter, he points to some non-existent face in the distance and smiles. He broke into song twice yesterday.
He left by helicopter, the last few hours of the night spent canvassing in Leixlip and Lucan in Dublin. He is successfully erasing the memory of 2002. When he meets people now, they automatically call him Enda.
"The people of Ireland are sick and tired of listening to the ins and outs of Bertie's house," he said yesterday. He's sticking to the bread and butter issues, and hoping for jam at the end of it all.