Mai Trung, Dan Quyet and Ten Meters at Dawn on the Vinh - Cua Lo Avenue

Mai Trung, Dan Quyet and Ten Meters at Dawn on the Vinh - Cua Lo Avenue

3:10 a.m. The Vinh - Cua Lo avenue stretched into the dark, two silhouettes running side by side under the amber streetlights. Nguyen Mai Trung led Dan Quyet by roughly ten meters. In a 42.195 km race, ten meters is about three seconds of running - a number that means almost nothing on the final results board. But to anyone who has spent enough sleepless nights beside a race course to understand that the marathon is not a speed contest but a decision contest, ten meters at kilometer ten is a full indictment. It reveals who is afraid, who is hiding fear, and who is trying to look fearless.

Dan Quyet waved at the camera. Mai Trung did not look across. Two men heading toward the same finish line more than thirty kilometers away, yet running two entirely different races.

After many years of writing, I made myself one promise: "Records are only shadows; the human being is the course." At VM Nghe An 2026, how long that shadow runs matters less than the question of how those two men stepped out of their own comfort zones - and what price awaits them at kilometer thirty-five.

Context: the first time on Uncle Ho's homeland

VM Nghe An 2026 is a stage of the Grand Tour system, and the first time the event has come to the homeland of President Ho Chi Minh. It features four distances: 5km, 10km, 21km and 42km. All runners start from the Ho Chi Minh Square area and finish on Truong Thi street, at the junction with Le Van Huu street. Bibs were distributed at the Nghe An Labor Culture House on September 25 and 26.

The longest distance, 42km, started at 3 a.m. From Ho Chi Minh Square, runners passed through Ho Tung Mau, Truong Thi, Le Nin Avenue, then joined the Vinh - Cua Lo Avenue. After roughly 16 km, the course turned toward Binh Minh, ran along the Cua Lo coastal area, and made its turnaround at Cua Xa.

The 21km started at 4 a.m., following Ho Tung Mau - Truong Thi - Le Nin Avenue and then straight along Vinh - Cua Lo. After turning at around km 11, runners returned toward the city center and finished on Truong Thi. This distance had two cut-off times: km 10 at 5:40 a.m. and km 16.9 at 6:50 a.m.; the course closed at 7:30 a.m. The 10km started at 5 a.m., with one cut-off at km 6 at 6:15 a.m., closing at 7 a.m. The 5km took place entirely within the city center, starting at 6 a.m., with no cut-off, closing at 7:15 a.m.

For the 42km alone, the elite field was thin. Familiar names included Dan Quyet, Dao Ba Thanh, Le Van Huong and Nguyen Mai Trung. Alongside the elites, the starting line featured host clubs such as Nghe An Runner and Ha Tinh Runner in striking pink shirts.

Before the race, two commentators, Thanh Meo and Vinh Runner, made a remark worth remembering: this was the race with the fewest 42km runners, creating favorable conditions for competing and setting personal records; the Nghe An course was quite favorable, with beautiful roads. That seemingly ordinary comment turned out to be the key to understanding everything that followed.

Behind the course, operations were prepared very early. Hundreds of volunteers coordinated with the operations team at multiple positions. Local police, traffic police and medical staff were mobilized for security, traffic control and medical support. From the night of September 26, volunteers were present at the start area to receive assignments and familiarize themselves with procedures. After briefing, they were deployed to points along the course, installing infrastructure, completing water stations and cheering zones before runners entered the race.

What the results board does not tell

In the Hanoi running community, Nguyen Mai Trung is not a name that appears in major headlines. He is 35, works in e-commerce, and runs with Thanh Cong Runners. What makes people remember him is a specific figure: 2 hours 41 minutes 55 seconds at VnExpress Marathon Hai Phong 2026, ranking 69th on the list of the fastest full marathon runners in Vietnam's history.

To outsiders, 69th is a middling number. To those in the sport, 69th nationally is the product of four a.m. mornings, weeks of strict weight management, refusing beer at company gatherings, and a training volume no gym can teach. Mai Trung does not run to be famous; he runs to prove that an e-commerce worker can still touch the territory of professional athletes.

Dan Quyet is different. I noticed how he waved at the camera at kilometer ten. Over the next four hours, the body will pay in sweat, salt and cramps. Yet Dan Quyet chose to smile. There are two kinds of people who smile on a race course: those who are genuinely relaxed, and those trying to reassure themselves. To this day, I still cannot say which one Dan Quyet was.

In the women's field, the story was more interesting than expected. My Hien led. This runner trains with Nghe An Runners and holds a personal record of 3 hours 7 minutes 39 seconds. A local runner leading a race held on her own homeland is not a coincidence.

I once followed a little-known trail runner to Lien Chieu district in Da Nang just to hear him talk about a running diary over 1,800 pages long, kept across five years. From that I learned one thing: what a results board never shows is the diary, the accumulated kilometers, the calluses on the heels, the relationships broken because of one training morning that ran too long. When My Hien led at Cua Lo, behind her stood a club, a city, and possibly years of waiting for a moment like this.

The course as a contract

The 42km course at VM Nghe An 2026 has a structure worth analyzing. The first half runs from Ho Chi Minh Square through Ho Tung Mau, Truong Thi, Le Nin Avenue and then onto Vinh - Cua Lo Avenue. This is a wide, beautiful, low-gradient stretch. After roughly 16 km, the course turns onto Binh Minh, runs along the Cua Lo coast, then turns around at Cua Xa.

Personally, the Cua Lo coastal stretch is the heart of the whole equation. The sea breeze here is not strong, but what matters is that humidity rises as morning comes. A runner entering the turnaround at Cua Xa must run back toward central Vinh without the shade of night. If he still has energy, this is the moment to attack. If he is spent, this is the moment to be crushed.

I once wrote about a sleepless night in Russia and drew one lesson: "The white night in Russia taught me that the best play is the play no one expects." At Vinh - Cua Lo, the cut-off times are the contract the organizers sign with each runner. The 21km has cut-offs at km 10 at 5:40 a.m. and km 16.9 at 6:50 a.m. The 10km has a cut-off at km 6 at 6:15 a.m. These are points where a runner who passes later than the set time is eliminated.

For the 42km starting at 3 a.m., no cut-off was announced in the live feed, but the operating logic is clear: the course closes at 7:30 a.m. for the 21km, and four hours after the start, the 42km runners are still on the road. Cut-offs are not just a safety tool; they are a form of rule that changes the leader's tactics. Knowing he must pass point X before hour Y, a runner cannot simply slow down to save energy. He must choose between speed and safety - and in the marathon, safety usually wins.

Looking at the course structure, I believe the 42km winner will be decided between km 30 and km 38, after the turnaround at Cua Xa. This is where there are no crowds, no cameras, only increasingly heavy footsteps and a deeply personal decision: dare to surge or not.

Why a thin field is more dangerous

Thanh Meo and Vinh Runner's observation that this race had the fewest 42km runners, creating conditions to compete and set personal records, sounds very positive. But seen through the eyes of someone who has analyzed long-distance races, this has a flip side.

When the field is thin, the lead group is small. A small lead group means there are not enough rivals to disrupt the shared rhythm. In a race with thirty elites, each must constantly adapt to the others' pace, and that very disruption produces attacks. In a race with only a few genuinely competitive runners, each can run his own tactic, and the outcome is usually decided by who keeps better instincts over the final thirty kilometers.

That is why the ten-meter gap between Mai Trung and Dan Quyet at kilometer ten is worth pondering. In a crowded race, that gap means nothing. In a thin race like VM Nghe An, it may be the expression of two different strategies: Mai Trung wants to control the pace, Dan Quyet wants to hang on and wait.

I have looked through the list of Vietnam's fastest runners. Mai Trung's 2:41:55 is not a random number. To achieve it, an e-commerce worker must run 70 to 90 km per week on average, plus speed and threshold sessions. That means he cannot simply rely on inspiration; he must have a system. And a man with a system usually chooses controlled running over inspired running.

Dan Quyet, with his relaxed spirit and waves, evokes the image of a runner moving to emotional rhythm. Over a long race, both approaches can win. But they cannot coexist in a small group. One man will have to change to follow the other, and that moment of change is the moment the race is decided.

The pressure of leading at dawn

There is a paradox I have heard recounted in many late-night calls with athletes: the marathon leader in the first half usually loses in the second half. The reason is not purely physical. It is psychological.

When a man leads at kilometer ten, he begins to have something to protect. Before kilometer ten, he only had a goal. After kilometer ten, he has a goal and a position. The human brain operates differently between those two states. In hunting mode, the body releases adrenaline as a stimulant. In protecting mode, it releases cortisol as a warning. The same running intensity, but two different hormones produce two different outcomes.

I have watched this phenomenon many times as an athletics reporter. Runners who lead with a comfortable feeling often enter the 30 to 35 km stretch with hesitation - not daring to accelerate for fear of losing the lead, not daring to slow for fear of being overtaken. By contrast, the man hanging on in second place usually has a far lighter mind: he has nothing to lose. And in the marathon, the man with nothing to lose is usually the one who dares to surge at kilometer thirty-five.

Against this backdrop, the moment Dan Quyet waved at the camera at kilometer ten becomes worth analyzing. It may be the sign of a man in hunting mode. It may also be the sign of a man hiding tension. There is only one way to know: wait until kilometer thirty-five.

One more rarely mentioned point: leading in the dark is entirely different from leading in sunlight. At kilometer ten, when it is still dark, the leader cannot clearly see the rivals behind him. He cannot judge distance. He can only hear breathing. And breathing at ten meters is breathing at a dangerous threshold - close enough to apply pressure, far enough that coordination is impossible. This is a state any athlete wants to avoid, because it forces him to run two races at once: one with himself, one with the man beside him.

The names that never make the feed

Dao Ba Thanh and Le Van Huong were two names in the group that broke away from the very first strides. In the live feed, they were mentioned only once. But to a long-time athletics observer, their presence is what matters.

In a big race, people remember the winner and the first finisher of each distance. But the structure of a long-distance race is built by those in the middle of the rankings. Dao Ba Thanh and Le Van Huong were not mentioned much in the feed, but they are the ones who create the "competitive rhythm" of the race. Without them, Mai Trung and Dan Quyet would run in a void - and a void is always the enemy of performance.

I once wrote: "There are athletes who never reach the finish line, yet keep running forever in my memory." Dao Ba Thanh and Le Van Huong are not among them - they will finish. But their story belongs to another kind of memory: the memory of those who support the structure of the race. No one awards a medal for that role, but everyone in the sport understands its value.

The team behind the course

One point the live feed gave considerable attention to was operations. From the night of September 26, hundreds of volunteers were present at the start area to receive assignments. They were deployed to points along the course, installing infrastructure and completing water stations and cheering zones. Local police, traffic police and medical staff were also mobilized.

To outsiders, these are just operational details. To those in the sport, they are the foundation of every record. A water station placed in the wrong spot can ruin an entire race. An inexperienced volunteer can hand out the wrong cup. A traffic control point set inaccurately can force a runner to stop mid-course. The people who do not run are the ones who decide whether the race unfolds smoothly.

I once witnessed a runner lose a medal because a water station was placed two hundred meters later than planned. Since then, every time I read a live feed of a race, I pay special attention to the operations section. At VM Nghe An 2026, the mobilization and overnight deployment of hundreds of volunteers signals that the organizers understand the importance of the backstage.

The question of the women's finish

Back to My Hien. A local runner leading the women's field raises a question the live feed does not answer: does home advantage really exist in the marathon?

In football, home advantage is statistically clear. In long-distance athletics, the evidence is more complex. Some studies suggest runners on familiar courses have a tactical edge - they know exactly which stretch is hilly, which is windy, where to save energy. But other studies indicate that pressure from a familiar crowd can be harmful, especially when a runner feels she must perform rather than compete.

For My Hien, who trains with Nghe An Runners and holds a personal record of 3:07:39, the advantage of course knowledge is clear. She knows how the wind blows on Binh Minh, how the turnaround at Cua Xa feels, whether Truong Thi is wide enough for a sprint finish. But she also knows the whole city is watching. That is a pressure no gym can simulate.

The contrarian view: when a "beautiful course" becomes a trap

Thanh Meo and Vinh Runner's remark that "the Nghe An course is quite favorable, with beautiful roads" is one of the lines I want to keep and dissect the longest.

In running circles, "beautiful course" is a compliment. But from a tactical standpoint, a beautiful course can be a trap. A course that is too favorable eliminates the advantage of runners who are good at climbing and handling terrain, while turning the race into a pure speed test. In a pure speed test, the runner with the best speed base always has the biggest edge - and runners with a strong endurance base but lower top speed are pushed out of the race.

This partly explains why at VM Nghe An, the 42km lead group broke away from the very first strides. On a flat course, there is no terrain to disperse the field. The fastest group separates early, and the rest finish in a second race, less mentioned but no less brutal.

One more point: when a race has few 42km runners, the percentage of runners choosing the "run safe to finish" tactic is lower. This means the race will be more brutal at the front, because no one plays the role of "companion runner" to hold the pace. Each man at the front must decide his own pace, and in the marathon, deciding your own pace is always the most dangerous thing.

On broken relationships and four a.m. mornings

I always think about the price marathon runners pay. A runner who achieves 2:41:55 at Hai Phong 2026, like Mai Trung, did not get there by running three sessions a week. He must wake at four a.m., run before work, get home at seven, eat breakfast, go to work, and do supplementary training at night. He must refuse after-work drinks with colleagues, weekend trips, evenings watching movies with family.

I once heard a runner say his wife told him: "You run more than you are home." That sentence is not a reproach; it is a truth spoken after years of silence. Every medal is a debt, and that debt is never fully repaid. Runners pay it in time, in health, in relationships that sometimes cannot be mended.

Dan Quyet, with his relaxed spirit and waves, may represent a different approach. A lighter approach, less obsessive. But in the marathon, lightness and victory rarely go together. That is why I dare not predict the outcome at kilometer thirty-five.

What will be recorded

When the sun rises over Vinh - Cua Lo Avenue, the 42km race will enter its decisive phase. The lead group will shrink, perhaps to one. The final water station will serve water and salt. Volunteers who have been awake since the night before will stand along the road, clap, and record the bib numbers of passing runners.

In a way, this is the moment where athletics and human life meet. A 42 km race is not decided at kilometer one, nor at kilometer ten. It is decided where there are no spectators, no cameras, when the body has run dry and the mind holds only one question: continue or stop.

I have written many times that athletics and life share one thing: everyone has a finish line, but few run the right road. At VM Nghe An 2026, two men are running the correct technical route, but their real road - the road to the decision of whether to surge - has not yet appeared.

A progressive thought

I ask myself: if the ten-meter gap at kilometer ten ultimately becomes just a detail in a live feed, what will remain of VM Nghe An 2026 after the race closes?

Perhaps a medal. Perhaps a personal record broken. Perhaps the image of a local runner leading on her own homeland.

But to me, the most worth keeping is the moment at 3:10 a.m., when two men ran side by side in the dark, ten meters apart, and neither knew for certain where he would finish. That is the most primal state of sport: nothing guaranteed, nothing promised in advance, only a finish line and a body that must decide for itself.

And perhaps that is also why we stay up late to watch races like this. Not to know who wins. But to remember that in this world there remain distances of only ten meters, and to cross them, one must pay with an entire stretch of life ahead.