VM Nghe An 2026: The 42km Race, a 10-Meter Gap, and the Physiology Test Under the Lights of Ho Chi Minh Square

At exactly 3:10 AM, under the high-pressure lamps of Ho Chi Minh Square, two runners were about ten meters apart. Nguyen Mai Trung held a steady cadence in front, never turning his head, never waving at the cameras. Behind him, Dan Quyet kept just enough distance to study his opponent's heel strike, yet still managed to wave at the lens. I sat in the temporary stand near Truong Thi, my notebook open, and the first thing I wrote down was not the name of the leader, but that ten-meter gap. Across forty-two kilometers, ten meters is an almost meaningless number. It is not a safe buffer, nor a clear tactical signal. But for someone who has spent more than twelve years watching human speed unfold over long courses, I know that most marathons are not decided in the first twenty kilometers, but in the thirty-fifth second of the thirty-second kilometer. The problem is that at 3:10 AM, neither of those two men knows where he will be when the sky fully brightens. This is the first time the VnExpress Marathon Grand Tour has come to Nghe An, the homeland of President Ho Chi Minh, with four distances: 5km, 10km, 21km and 42km. All athletes start at Ho Chi Minh Square and finish on Truong Thi Street, at the intersection with Le Van Huu. The longest distance departs at 3 AM. The course runs through Ho Tung Mau, Truong Thi, Le Nin Avenue, then connects to Vinh - Cua Lo Avenue. After roughly sixteen kilometers, it turns onto Binh Minh, runs along the coastal area of Cua Lo and turns around at Cua Xa. For someone who studies the physiology of long races, I always ask: what does this course take from the runner, and what does it give back? The mass running season in Vietnam is in its most abundant phase in terms of the number of races, but also its most easily misjudged phase in terms of professional quality. People usually count registered shirts, sponsor numbers, social media posts. Few count the real kilometers a runner must carry on his feet when his energy begins to run dry. On the evening of September 26, hundreds of volunteers gathered at the start area to receive assignments. They were distributed across the course, installing infrastructure, completing water stations, building cheering zones. Police, traffic police and local medical staff were mobilized to regulate vehicles and stand by for medical support. These operational numbers rarely appear on a results board, but they are the foundation on which a personal record can be broken or not. Before the race, at the gathering area, I ran into a few familiar faces. Dan Quyet, Dao Ba Thanh, Le Van Huong. Beyond the elite names, the start line also featured host clubs such as Nghe An Runner and Ha Tinh Runner in striking pink shirts, creating a strange atmosphere. In pre-race conversations, Thanh Meo and Vinh Runner remarked that this was one of the races with the fewest 42km runners, which made it favorable for competing and breaking personal records. The Nghe An course, they said, was fairly favorable, with beautiful road surfaces. What does a race with few 42km runners actually mean? Emotionally, it brings openness. Professionally, it completely changes the nature of the race. In a crowded race, a strong runner usually has to pull himself through the pack before finding someone at his pace. In a sparse race, the gap appears early, and the leading group separates faster. At exactly 3 AM, when the horn sounded, Dan Quyet, Dao Ba Thanh and Mai Trung quickly broke away. Less than ten minutes later, two of them were running side by side, alternating the lead. Nguyen Mai Trung, thirty-five years old, lives in Hanoi, works in e-commerce, and is a member of Thanh Cong Runners Club. In the Hanoi running community, he drew attention with a time of 2 hours 41 minutes 55 seconds at VnExpress Marathon Hai Phong 2026, ranking 69th on the list of the fastest full marathon runners in Vietnamese history. Dan Quyet, running alongside him in Nghe An, is a familiar name on long courses, and the way he waved at the camera at the second kilometer suggests he felt no pressure in the opening phase. In the women's race, a bigger surprise was unfolding. My Hien, a host athlete from Nghe An Runners Club, with a personal record of 3 hours 7 minutes 39 seconds, was leading. For someone who follows marathons in Japan as well as Vietnam, I always pay attention to the gap between a personal record and actual race-day performance. That is the most objective indicator of whether a runner is performing at her level or trying to push past her own safety limits. In endurance sports, people tend to sanctify emotion. Weak writers often tell us that an athlete "rose above himself" through willpower. But the body does not run on miracles. It runs on muscle glycogen, on blood lactate concentration, on the ability to sustain aerobic gas exchange at the second threshold. Every runner steps to the start line with a finite energy budget, and the real question of a marathon is: who spends that budget most efficiently? At Ho Chi Minh Square, the flat road surface and the low temperature of the early morning create ideal conditions for energy conservation. But the route heading out to Vinh - Cua Lo Avenue and turning around at Cua Xa has a feature rarely mentioned: after leaving the city center, the runner heads toward the sea and must turn back. The turnaround point is where the race does not change in distance, but changes psychologically. The leader no longer sees the opponent behind him. The chaser no longer sees the runner ahead. In the ten to twenty seconds at the turnaround, both must operate on internal drive without any visual reference. I usually record split times at checkpoints. When Mai Trung and Dan Quyet maintain a ten-meter gap, it means one of them is controlling the race, and the other is choosing his moment. Neither opens up the pace before kilometer thirty. This is reasonable. Opening early on a coastal course with wind is metabolic suicide. Wind blowing in from the sea creates additional drag, and a runner must spend extra energy to hold his target heart rate. So my question is this: if this race ends with a small gap, does the winner's time truly reflect the best fitness, or only the most efficient spender on that day? In a marathon, these two things are often conflated, but they are different in nature. The fastest runner in a specific race is not always the one with the greatest potential. Sometimes he is simply the one who reads his opponent better. In the women's race, the story is more complex. My Hien led from the start, which suggests two possibilities. First, she has superior form compared to the general level of this season's women's field. Second, the opponents who should have been chasing are dealing with problems — injury, insufficient fitness base, or a wrong tactical adjustment. In the running world, people often praise a surprising result as a "miracle." I see the opposite. A miracle almost always has a price. Behind an unexpected victory is a training process no one filmed, five AM runs without an audience, and small races the media never counted. In my years of following long races in Vietnam, I have noticed a striking pattern. The media usually focuses on the first finisher, but the real data lies in the group from third to tenth place. That is the group of persistent runners who create the density of a race, and it is also the group that most accurately reflects the quality of a course. A race with one outstanding runner is not enough. A race is truly good when a whole group runs close together, forcing the leader to pay a price. Looking at the 42km start list in Nghe An, the number of elite runners was not large. Emotionally, this made fans focus on a two-man race. Professionally, it raised another question: is Vietnam lacking a generation of marathon runners who can run below two hours forty minutes? On paper, Mai Trung's 2:41:55 ranks 69th in history — an impressive number for him personally, but also a number showing that density at the top tier remains thin. In Tokyo or Osaka, on any autumn weekend, dozens of sub-2:40 runners appear at annual races. In Vietnam, that number can still be counted on one hand. This does not deny anyone's achievement. It only raises a question about the system. Marathon training cannot rely entirely on spontaneous individual effort. It needs long-term programs, training groups, recovery logistics, and a dense enough race calendar for runners to clash with opponents of their level. This is why I look at the race between Mai Trung and Dan Quyet with a different eye than most spectators. People see two men running side by side. I see two individuals carrying two different training histories, two different energy allocation strategies, betting on the same prize. The ten-meter gap at the first kilometer decides nothing, but how the two handle that gap at the thirty-fifth kilometer will decide everything. There is an interesting feature of the Nghe An course that few mention. Starting at Ho Chi Minh Square and finishing on Truong Thi Street creates a closed loop in which runners head to the sea and then return to the city. Geographically, elevation is almost constant. Psychologically, this is a clearly two-way course. On the way out, runners still have energy and excitement. On the way back, especially after the thirty-fifth kilometer, every meter becomes a negotiation between will and muscle. This is where cut-off times (COT) become important. In the 42km distance, the organizers set time markers to ensure safety and maintain the pace of the course. For the 21km distance, COT checkpoints are at km 10 at 5:40 and km 16.9 at 6:50, with the course closing at 7:30. The 10km distance has one COT at km 6 at 6:15, with the course closing at 7:00. The 5km distance takes place entirely in the city center, starts at 6:00, has no COT, and the course closes at 7:15. These markers are not merely administrative. They are risk-management tools for the entire event. As someone whose profession involves investigation and cross-checking data, I always read time markers as a map that acknowledges human limits. Organizers cannot claim that every runner will finish. They claim that those who exceed the predefined limits will be removed from the course for safety. This is correct. In endurance sports, true kindness is not unconditional cheering, but telling runners the truth about what their bodies can endure. Dan Quyet waved at the camera at the second kilometer. It was a very small gesture, but to me it said he was controlling his psychology. At major marathons, Kenyan and Ethiopian runners often show similar ease in the first ten kilometers. They know that facial expression sends signals to opponents. Someone who looks comfortable makes the other wonder whether he is being left behind. Mai Trung, by contrast, looked focused. He did not look at the camera, did not change cadence, did not show anything beyond an even stride. Two styles, two psychological strategies. Neither is better in principle. Only one is more suitable to that specific person on that specific day. I have seen runners win through absolute composure, and I have also seen runners win through displayed confidence. In both cases, what decided the outcome was the ability to sustain lactate threshold at the end of the race, not the expression at the second kilometer. One thing I always find strange in how we tell the story of Vietnamese marathons. We talk a lot about the start line, the opening ceremony, the vibrant atmosphere. We rarely talk about the thirty-fifth kilometer. But the thirty-fifth kilometer is where human nature reveals itself. It is when the legs no longer want to obey reason, when the mind must split in two, one part persuading the body to continue, one part preparing for failure. On the coastal course of Cua Lo, with lateral wind and distant waves, the thirty-fifth kilometer will be the fairest court of all. I still remember once following a marathon in central Vietnam, when a runner finished in a state of exhaustion and was taken straight to the medical tent. The media that day praised him as a symbol of willpower. But looking at the cardiovascular data after the race, I saw that he had pushed his body past the safety limit. Willpower is admirable. But in endurance sports, caution is sometimes the highest form of courage. The strangest thing is not the error, but the way people try to explain it. Back at Ho Chi Minh Square. This morning, runners in the 5km, 10km and 21km distances will set off in waves after the 42km groups, creating a continuous stream on Truong Thi Street. In the 21km distance, runners start at 4:00, following the route Ho Tung Mau - Truong Thi - Le Nin Avenue and then straight onto Vinh - Cua Lo Avenue, turning around at around km 11, returning toward the center and finishing on Truong Thi Street. In the 10km distance, runners start at 5:00, passing through Ho Tung Mau, Truong Thi, Le Nin Avenue, entering Vinh - Cua Lo Avenue and turning around at around km 5. In the 5km distance, runners start at 6:00 and the race takes place entirely in the city center. I often ask myself while watching a race: what truly makes people wake up at two in the morning to run forty-two kilometers? The answer is not in the medal. It is in the human desire to find a measure for one's own limits. Marathon, at this point, is the most honest sport. There is no teammate to blame, no coach to adjust, no referee to argue with. There is only forty-two kilometers and a single body that must answer. To an observer like me, that truth is sometimes more important than the final result. Who wins the men's 42km depends not only on who runs faster, but also on who dares to be more correct in each small decision. Mai Trung and Dan Quyet, two different people from two different regions, are writing the same chapter today. Their ten-meter gap at 3:10 AM is only the beginning of a long chain of decisions neither can reverse. In the women's race, My Hien is leading. She is a host club athlete from Nghe An Runners, someone who knows every bend of the coastal course. If she holds her pace and finishes close to her personal record of 3:07:39, it will be one of the most notable stories of the Vietnamese running season. If she surpasses it, the story becomes even more notable, but it must also be viewed with a clear eye. One thing the media rarely does thoroughly enough: cross-check the numbers. That is why every article like this must include a small note about weather conditions, humidity, wind, and road surface. All these factors affect performance, and they are not uniform across races. A result on a flat coastal road at fifteen degrees Celsius cannot be directly compared to a result on a hilly course at thirty degrees Celsius. Careless comparison is a waste of time, and worse, a form of disrespect to the runners themselves. What I want to emphasize here is this: marathon runners deserve to be viewed through a chain of data, not through a single impression. When someone says a runner is "rising," I want to see detailed split times at km 5, 10, 15, 20, 25, 30, 35 and 40. When someone says a course is "favorable," I want to see elevation data, average gradient, wind direction. When someone says a race is "well organized," I want to see the number of water stations per ten kilometers and the response time of the medical team. In an industry where social media can turn a beautiful photo into a perfect story, recording dry numbers is the only way to keep the truth from being bent. I say this not to strip the emotion from a race. I say it because emotion deserves to rest on a foundation of truth. A beautiful race with wrong numbers is a lie. An ordinary race with correct numbers is a good story. People call me conservative. I tell them to wait a few more years. When Vietnam's running movement reaches maturity, when races can no longer attract only through atmosphere but must attract through quality, then the way we read a results board will also change. People will not only ask who won. They will ask in what conditions the winner ran, against whom, and how much energy he spent to finish. Back to the moment at 3:10 AM. Ten meters. In the next few hours, that gap could widen into two minutes, narrow to a few steps, or disappear entirely in a surge at the thirtieth kilometer. Both Mai Trung and Dan Quyet know this. That is why neither says anything. In a marathon, words are worth less than heartbeats. And the heartbeat, at the first kilometer, reveals nothing about the future. Dan Quyet waved at the camera at the second kilometer. I recorded that moment in my notebook, not because it was beautiful, but because it gave me a reference point. If at the thirtieth kilometer he still held that expression, all my predictions would have to be rewritten. If at the thirtieth kilometer his face tightened, the gap with Mai Trung would tell the truth. In endurance sports, the face is a data board that cannot be edited. I once wrote that all I do is connect the dots, and count how many people deliberately draw them wrong. This holds true both in financial investigation and in sports observation. Each split time is a dot. Each expression is a dot. Each small decision is a dot. The final result only means something when all those dots are connected into a straight line. If someone deliberately skips a dot, that line will bend, and readers will unknowingly believe a wrong story. With more than twelve years of experience following long courses, I can say this: most marathons in Vietnam today are far better organized than ten years ago. Infrastructure has improved, medical care is more attentive, safety standards are higher. This deserves recognition. But precisely because the foundation is better, expectations must also be higher. A modern race cannot succeed only in operations. It must also succeed in data authenticity and result transparency. The annual running season is at its peak. Running clubs are accumulating races, runners are accumulating personal records, and the media is accumulating stories. In that context, what readers need from a sports writer is not rounds of applause, but grounded analysis. When I follow Mai Trung, Dan Quyet or My Hien, I do not cheer. I observe. And I believe that fair observation is the greatest gift a writer can give to a runner. The 42km race at VM Nghe An 2026 is still unfolding as I write these lines. The ten-meter gap between the two male leaders may have changed. My Hien may have widened the gap or been caught. I do not yet know the result. But I know one thing for certain: the final result will not be decided in the early kilometers we just witnessed. It will be decided in the final meters, when the morning light is bright enough for runners to see the road ahead clearly. If tomorrow someone asks me what was notable about this race, I will not tell them about the moment two runners ran side by side under the lights of Ho Chi Minh Square. I will tell them about the thirty-fifth kilometer, when the sun has risen, when the sound of waves is just the sound of breathing, and when a small decision in an instant shapes an entire result. That is where a marathon is truly written. And as races in Vietnam continue to multiply, as marathons become ever more popular, what we need to preserve is not the number of races, but honesty in how we tell their stories. A beautiful course does not make a runner. A medal does not make a truth. Only dots connected with care can do that. And that is why I am still sitting here, near Truong Thi, tracking every split time, waiting for the answer that the coastal road of Cua Lo will give when the sky fully brightens.