VnExpress Marathon Nghe An 2026: The 42km Race of Mai Trung, Dan Quyet and My Hien Under the 3am Lights

At exactly 3am on September 27, 2026, the city of Vinh was still drowsy. On Ho Chi Minh Square, a small group of athletes stood at the starting line of the 42km distance. There was no packed grandstand, no blaring loudspeaker, only the sound of feet warming up on the pavement and the faint yellow glow of streetlights falling on race bibs still smelling of fresh paper. Among them were Nguyen Mai Trung, 35 years old, from Hanoi, and Dan Quyet. Two names the entire Vietnamese amateur running scene was waiting to see cross the line first. Ten minutes after the start, they were still side by side. The two took turns leading. Mai Trung looked focused, eyes fixed straight ahead. Dan Quyet seemed more relaxed, occasionally waving at the cameras. No commentator shouted their names. No grandstand chanted them. There was only a gap of about ten meters, recorded in the race's live feed, and an invisible thread stretched tight with every breath. That is the moment I want to begin with. Not the moment someone crosses the finish line with both arms raised, but the moment two men run in the dark, knowing that behind them a woman named My Hien is also leading a race of her own, and knowing that very few people will remember their names once the sun rises. There are running lives that never appear on a results board, but live in the silence between two starting lines. A race coming home to Uncle Ho's homeland The VnExpress Marathon Grand Tour Nghe An 2026 was the first edition held in the homeland of President Ho Chi Minh. This is a detail the organizers repeated throughout the two bib-collection days, and it is no empty slogan. The square bearing his name is the starting point. Truong Thi Street, where athletes finish, is one of the oldest axes of the city of Vinh. The whole race unfolds within a space of memory, where every almond tree and every street block carries a layer of history that runners can feel right beneath their shoes. The event included four distances: 5km, 10km, 21km and 42km. All athletes started in the Ho Chi Minh Square area and finished on Truong Thi Street, at the intersection with Le Van Huu Street. This is a notable course design choice: the start and finish do not coincide, but both sit in the central area, allowing local spectators to move between the two points in a short time. For a first-time race in a province without a long marathon tradition, keeping the course compact within the urban core was a sensible operational decision. Bib collection took place at the Nghe An Labor Culture House over two days, September 25 and 26. From the very first afternoon, the atmosphere at the collection area was lively. Local running clubs arrived in groups, took photos, checked their outfits, and took the chance to familiarize themselves with the course. For many, this was the first time running a full marathon right at home, so a mix of excitement and nerves was understandable. From the evening of September 26, volunteers were present at the start area to receive assignments and get familiar with the operating procedure. After the briefing, this force was distributed to points along the course, installing infrastructure, completing water stations, cheer zones and other necessary items before runners entered the race. To serve the event, the organizers deployed hundreds of volunteers working alongside the operations team at many positions. Local police, traffic police and medical staff were also mobilized, handling security, traffic control and medical support on the course. Based on my experience following many amateur races in Vietnam through screens and through my notebooks, I find that the backstage organization is often the least mentioned part yet the one that decides the experience of thousands of people. A water station placed in the wrong spot, a cut-off time (COT) marker set too early, or a stretch lacking signage can all turn a beautiful race day into a terrible memory. With the Nghe An event, mobilizing hundreds of volunteers along with authorities shows the organizers are clearly aware that a first-time race has no right to make mistakes in operations. The course: from the square to Cua Lo beach The longest distance, 42km, started at 3am. From Ho Chi Minh Square, runners went through Ho Tung Mau, Truong Thi, Le Nin Avenue, then joined Vinh – Cua Lo Avenue. After about 16km, the course continued onto Binh Minh route, passing the Cua Lo coastal area and turning back at Cua Xa. This is a course design with a clear rhythm: the first half is urban, the second half is sea. For the 21km distance, runners started at 4am, following Ho Tung Mau – Truong Thi – Le Nin Avenue, then ran straight along Vinh – Cua Lo Avenue. After turning back around km 11, athletes returned toward the center and finished on Truong Thi Street. This distance had two COT markers, at km 10 at 5:40am and km 16.9 at 6:50am. The course closed at 7:30am. The 10km distance started at 5am, going from Ho Chi Minh Square through Ho Tung Mau, Truong Thi and Le Nin Avenue, into Vinh – Cua Lo Avenue, then turning back around km 5. Runners returned along the same route to finish. This distance had one COT marker at km 6 at 6:15am, and the course closed at 7am. The 5km distance took place entirely in the central area. After starting at 6am, athletes ran through Ho Tung Mau, Truong Thi, up Le Nin Avenue, then turned back, returned to Truong Thi and finished at the Le Van Huu intersection. This distance had no COT, and the course closed at 7:15am. This allocation of start times reflects a familiar logic of major marathons: the longer the distance, the earlier the start, to avoid heat and traffic. The 42km began at 3am, when it was still pitch dark; the 5km began at 6am, when the sky had brightened. Technically, running 42km in the dark offers an advantage in temperature, but it poses challenges in visibility and in navigating unfamiliar stretches. There is one detail I want to pause on: the turnaround at Cua Xa. This is the farthest point toward the sea of the 42km course. Full marathon runners reach it when they have already accumulated a large volume in their legs. The feeling of running along the Cua Lo shore in the early dawn is one of the most unforgettable experiences, but it is also when the body begins to send the clearest signals of fatigue. A course designed this way poses a psychological problem: runners must keep tactical clarity at the most beautiful moment of the route. The amateur running ecosystem and the invisible people Before the race, the 42km starting line gathered at Ho Chi Minh Square. A few familiar names such as Dan Quyet, Dao Ba Thanh and Le Van Huong competed this time. Besides the elite names, the starting line also saw the presence of host clubs such as Nghe An Runner and Ha Tinh Runner in striking pink shirts, creating a lively atmosphere. Chatting before the race, Thanh Meo and Vinh Runner remarked that this was a race with the fewest 42km runners, making it favorable to compete and break personal records (PR), and that the Nghe An course was quite favorable, with beautiful roads. That remark is worth analyzing. What does a race with few 42km runners mean? For those chasing results, it is an opportunity. Fewer rivals means a higher chance of a high placement, and a higher chance of breaking a PR because you are not stuck in a crowded field in the early kilometers. But for a growing running ecosystem, a 42km distance with few participants is also a signal worth pondering. The full marathon remains the most grueling distance, demanding a large training volume and a long preparation period. That a new race in a province without much marathon culture attracts few 42km runners is entirely predictable. The interesting part lies elsewhere. Precisely because few people run 42km, the race at this distance becomes more concentrated, and each position becomes clearer. Spectators can follow the lead pack almost in real time. That is a pleasant paradox: the hardest distance is also the easiest to follow. I write to reclaim the names that history has edited out of the lineup. In the Vietnamese amateur running scene, thousands of people quietly accumulate lap after lap every morning, with no sponsorship, no contract, no one calling their names. They pay for their bibs out of pocket, buy their own shoes, manage their own nutrition, and fit their training around working hours. When one of them steps onto the starting line at 3am, it is the result of hundreds of runs no one saw. Clubs like Nghe An Runner and Ha Tinh Runner, with their striking pink shirts, are precisely the cells of that ecosystem. They do not just run. They organize group runs, share training plans, and encourage each other through cold mornings and blazing afternoons. A marathon cannot exist without such communities, because they create the large enough pool of athletes for a race to have a reason to exist. The 42km race: three names break away At exactly 3am, the 42km runners left the starting line, beginning their journey on the full marathon course of the Grand Tour Nghe An. In the first strides, Dan Quyet, Dao Ba Thanh and Mai Trung quickly broke away. This is a familiar development at long distances: the elite group separates early to avoid collisions and to set their own pace. In the dark, three figures surged forward, leaving behind a pack still finding its rhythm. Ten minutes after the start, the two elites Mai Trung and Dan Quyet ran side by side. The two took turns leading. Mai Trung looked focused while Dan Quyet showed a relaxed spirit, waving at the cameras. The gap between them was about ten meters. At 42km, ten meters in the tenth minute means almost nothing in terms of performance. It only means something psychologically. The runner behind always sees the back of the runner ahead, and the runner ahead always feels the breath of the one behind. This is where tactics begin to take shape. In the marathon, people often speak of two schools: leading to control the pace, or sitting on the shoulder to save energy and unleash a kick at the end. Both schools carry risk. The leader bears psychological pressure and must take responsibility for the pace. The one sitting in must accept dependence on the rival and can be dropped if the rival surges suddenly. That Mai Trung and Dan Quyet took turns leading in the early kilometers shows neither wanted to commit decisively. It is the sign of a race still long and of two minds calculating. At a distance where every wrong decision must be paid for in time, keeping calm in the first ten minutes matters no less than keeping strength in the last ten kilometers. Dan Quyet, relaxed and waving at the cameras, is sending a psychological message. In competitive sport, a relaxed attitude is often a weapon. It makes the rival wonder how much reserve the other has. But it can also be a display covering anxiety. We will never know for sure, because what goes on in a marathon runner's head at the third kilometer can hardly be measured. Mai Trung: the man of numbers no one records Nguyen Mai Trung, 35, from Hanoi, works in e-commerce and is a member of Thanh Cong Runners club. He drew attention in the capital's running scene with a time of 2 hours 41 minutes 55 seconds at the VnExpress Marathon Hai Phong 2026. With that result, he ranks 69th on the list of the fastest full marathon runners in Vietnam's history. Let us pause on the number 69 for a moment, because it tells a story. Ranking 69th in Vietnamese marathon history may not sound like a peak position. But in context, it is a respectable achievement. Marathon in Vietnam is still a relatively young scene, where the number of people running under 2 hours 45 minutes is not large. To reach 2 hours 41 minutes 55 seconds, a person must sustain an average pace of about 3 minutes 50 seconds per kilometer across 42.195km. That is a pace level requiring years of structured training, not a few months of casual running. What is more striking is Mai Trung's profession. He works in e-commerce, an industry with a fast work rhythm, many meetings and much target pressure. Maintaining a fitness level sufficient to run a marathon under 2 hours 45 minutes alongside a full-time office job is a feat of silent discipline. There is no personal coach behind every run, no logistics support team, only early mornings before work and evenings after the shift. For a runner like that, his presence at the 42km starting line in Nghe An and his leading the pack after ten minutes is no accident. It is the consequence of a long process. When someone has run 2 hours 41 minutes in Hai Phong, they understand exactly what their body needs at each stage of the race. They know when to accelerate, when to hold pace, and when to listen to signals from the knee, the calf, the heart rate. What I am always curious about in top amateur runners like Mai Trung is motivation. They do not run for prize money, because the prize money of an amateur marathon does not cover training and travel costs. They do not run for fame, because the fame of an amateur runner spreads only within a relatively small community. They run for something harder to name: the feeling of controlling yourself in a world full of variables beyond your reach. There are races whose placings are never recorded, because people choose to forget. But for the runner himself, every kilometer is recorded in the memory of the legs. That is a kind of memory no one can take away. Dan Quyet and the art of saving energy On the other side of the race, Dan Quyet represents a different model. In the Vietnamese amateur running scene, Dan Quyet is a familiar name, regularly appearing at major races as one of the top contenders. His presence in Nghe An, along with Dao Ba Thanh and Le Van Huong, turned the men's 42km into a gathering of the best runners. Dan Quyet's relaxed attitude as he waved at the cameras in the first kilometer is a small but telling detail. In the marathon, maintaining mental ease in the early phase is a real advantage. Excessive tension can raise the heart rate and cause a runner to burn energy needlessly. Someone who can relax while still holding target pace is mastering a skill many amateur runners take years to learn. Still, I want to raise a question about how we read such images. In the age of social media, every moment at the starting line can become content. A wave, a smile, a confident glance can all be captured and spread. This creates a new pressure: not only to run fast, but to look relaxed. For elite amateur runners, the line between genuinely being at ease and performing for the camera sometimes blurs. Dao Ba Thanh and Le Van Huong, the two other names in the early breakaway group, add depth to the race. Their presence means the lead pack is not a simple head-to-head duel, but a multi-layered structure. In a marathon, the number of rivals in the lead pack directly affects tactics. Three or four people running together means more chance of sudden surges, abrupt pace changes, and decisions that must be made in an instant. The women's race: My Hien and the silence of 3 hours 7 minutes In the women's race, the event saw a surprise when host runner My Hien took the lead. My Hien owns a personal record of 3 hours 7 minutes 39 seconds and is a member of Nghe An Runners club. That a host runner leads the women's race at the very first edition held in her homeland is a story worth telling more carefully. My Hien's time of 3 hours 7 minutes 39 seconds places her among the top women of the Vietnamese amateur running movement. To run a full marathon in about 3 hours 7 minutes, a female athlete must sustain an average pace of about 4 minutes 26 seconds per kilometer across 42.195km. This is a pace level demanding high endurance and training discipline. What makes My Hien's story special is the context. She is not only a female runner with a good result. She is also a host runner, competing on her own soil, in a race where the local community plays an important role both in numbers and in spirit. When a host athlete leads at a grueling distance, the pressure is not small. Every kilometer has familiar faces watching. Every stride has cheering in a local accent. The World Cup is a mirror reflecting how we tell women's stories from the stands. That is true of football, and it is also true of amateur athletics. Women's events often receive less attention than men's events, even when results are equivalent in relative terms. Part of the reason lies in how media allocates resources. Part lies in spectators' habits. When we talk about a 42km race, the first image that comes to mind is often male runners. That is a silent prejudice, created by no one on purpose, yet it exists. My Hien leading the women's race in Nghe An is a reminder that women's sports stories are always there, just waiting to be told. A female runner running 3 hours 7 minutes 39 seconds is no less impressive than a male runner over the same distance. But the number of people who know her, who follow her every stride, and the number of articles written about her, are often disproportionately fewer. In the amateur running world, this gap shows up in many small aspects. The number of prizes for women's events. The number of sponsors interested in female athletes. The number of analytical articles about female runners' tactics. These numbers are often lower, and this lower figure repeats over the years, forming a hard-to-break habit. The remaining distances: where the crowd belongs While the 42km had only a small group of athletes, the shorter distances drew large numbers. The 21km started at 4am, with two COT markers at km 10 at 5:40am and km 16.9 at 6:50am. The 10km started at 5am, with one COT marker at km 6 at 6:15am. The 5km started at 6am, with no COT. This distribution reflects the structure of Vietnam's running movement. Most participants in running events choose 5km, 10km or 21km. The full marathon remains a leap in physical and mental terms that not everyone is ready to make. For many, 10km is the first goal, 21km the next, and 42km a more distant dream. Holding four distances at once is a sensible strategy to attract multiple groups. A family can take part together: parents run 21km, children run 5km. A group of friends can split across distances and cheer each other on. This is how major marathons worldwide build community, and Vietnamese races are following that model. The COT markers are also worth mentioning because they reflect the strictness of the race. For the 21km, the COT at km 10 at 5:40am means 1 hour 40 minutes after the 4am start. A 21km runner must pass km 10 within 1 hour 40 minutes to avoid elimination. The second COT is at km 16.9 at 6:50am. For the 10km, the COT at km 6 at 6:15am means 1 hour 15 minutes after the 5am start. These numbers are not merely administrative rules. They are part of the experience design. A race must balance making things accessible for beginners with ensuring safety for all participants. A COT set too leniently can drag out the course and strain operations. A COT set too strictly can eliminate many people and sap their motivation. The contrarian angle: commercial value and competitive value The most thought-provoking thing about this race lies in the contrast between its commercial structure and its competitive structure. Amateur marathons in Vietnam, including the VnExpress Marathon series, are usually built around short and medium distances. This is where the crowds gather, and the crowds are the race's main revenue source. Each participant pays a fee, and thousands of participants generate considerable revenue. So the 5km, 10km and 21km distances are usually at the center of the commercial strategy. Meanwhile, the 42km is where the highest competitive value concentrates yet often has the fewest participants. This is a familiar paradox. The hardest distance, where the elite of the movement gathers, is the one that brings organizers the least profit. The 42km runners are the ones who have prepared for years, but their numbers are small, and so their commercial power is small. I believe this is the biggest blind spot in how we organize and tell stories about running events. We measure a race's success by participant numbers and revenue, while the true competitive value lies in the distances with the fewest runners. A race can have twenty thousand participants across short distances and only a few dozen running 42km. If we look only at the total, we miss what happens at the hardest distance. A similar example can be seen in women's sports. Women's football, women's basketball, women's volleyball often receive fewer sponsorship resources than their male counterparts, even when the quality of competition is no lower in relative terms. The reason is not competitive value but commercial value. And commercial value is not a constant of nature. It is the result of a process of investment, building and storytelling over decades. Every contract with women is a promise postponed indefinitely. This is true of football, and it is also true of athletics. Female runners like My Hien deserve attention commensurate with their results. But that attention does not come on its own. It must be built, one article at a time, one season at a time. I want to raise a view that may be controversial. For many years, the way we celebrate female athletes has often revolved around the story of overcoming hardship, of breaking prejudice, of resilience. Those stories matter and deserve to be told. But they inadvertently place the focus on circumstance rather than achievement. When a female runner runs 3 hours 7 minutes 39 seconds, the first thing worth mentioning should be that result, not how many difficulties she overcame to reach the starting line. This is a small but meaningful adjustment. Tell the story of the achievement first, the story of circumstance later. That is how we give female athletes the position they deserve: the position of competitors, not merely of inspirers. Conclusion: an open question When the sun rises over the city of Vinh, Truong Thi Street will grow busy. The 5km, 10km and 21km runners will finish one after another amid cheers. The water stations will be cleaned up. The volunteers will pack away the signage. By noon, the Ho Chi Minh Square area will return to its usual quiet. But before that, there was a brief window at 3am, when only a small group stood at the starting line and a ten-meter gap separated two men. In that window, a race took place that almost no one saw. And somewhere along a corner, a female runner named My Hien was quietly running forward, on her own soil. Between the whistle and the tears, I hear the pulse of an ecosystem waiting to be named. That ecosystem consists of thousands of amateur runners, hundreds of volunteers, and a few names that will be mentioned in the days to come. The question I want to leave is not who will win the 42km. The question is: after the race ends, how many people will still remember the female athletes who ran along the Cua Lo coastal road that morning?