Mai Trung and Dan Quyet battle for 42km lead at VM Nghe An 2026 in the quiet night

Around 3:10 a.m., on the darkened Vinh - Cua Lo avenue, two silhouettes ran side by side. Nguyen Mai Trung and Dan Quyet – the rare elites who accepted the 42km challenge in the dark – were dueling at the front. The gap between them was only about 10 meters, but those 10 meters were enough to tell two different stories about careers, about fear, and about the price paid for something called a PR. I stood at the finish line on Truong Thi Street – at the intersection with Le Van Huu Street – since before two in the morning. In front of me, hundreds of volunteers and operations staff were finishing the last tasks: checking water stations, arranging cheer zones, installing infrastructure. They had been working since the evening of September 26, after their assignment briefing and process training. Local police, traffic police, and medical workers were also mobilized for security, traffic control, and medical support. The VnExpress Marathon Grand Tour Nghe An 2026 is the first edition held in the hometown of President Ho Chi Minh. Runners picked up their bibs at the Nghe An Labor Cultural House on September 25 and 26. The race has four distances: 5km, 10km, 21km, and 42km, all starting at Ho Chi Minh Square and finishing on Truong Thi Street. The longest distance started at 3:00 a.m., the earliest of all. The course runs through Ho Tung Mau, Truong Thi, Le Nin Avenue, then connects to Vinh - Cua Lo Avenue, follows Binh Minh route after about 16km, runs along the Cua Lo coast, and turns back at Cua Xa. I had studied the map before writing. But no map can tell me how a runner feels through an empty road at three in the morning – no cheers, no flashlights, only their own breath and the sound of shoes hitting the asphalt. In the darkness, the pre-planned time markers became reminders of the race's cruelty. The 42km distance had two COT checkpoints, at km 10 at 5:40 and km 16.9 at 6:50; the course closed at 7:30. The 21km distance started at 4:00, with two COT checkpoints. The 10km distance started at 5:00, with one COT checkpoint at km 6 at 6:15. The 5km distance started at 6:00, with no COT, entirely in the central area. These numbers showed the race was a precisely operated machine, where every minute was calculated to ensure no runner was left behind. Before the start, at Ho Chi Minh Square, I saw familiar names warming up: Dan Quyet, Dao Ba Thanh, Le Van Huong. Among them were the home clubs Nghe An Runner and Ha Tinh Runner in their bright pink jerseys, creating a lively atmosphere in the dark. In a pre-race chat, Thanh Meo of Vinh Runner said this was a race with the fewest 42km runners, making it easier to compete for the title and chase a PR, with a favorable and beautiful route. That is true, but not enough. I have covered marathons in Vietnam for nearly 30 years, and I know a paradox: the fewer runners there are, the more nakedly those who remain must confront their own fear. In the men's 42km, my tracking list focused on two names: Nguyen Mai Trung and Dan Quyet. Mai Trung, 35, works in e-commerce in Hanoi and is a member of Thanh Cong Runners Club. He caught the attention of the running community in the capital with a time of 2 hours 41 minutes 55 seconds at VnExpress Marathon Hai Phong 2026 – ranked 69th in the list of fastest full marathon runners in Vietnamese history. But that number does not reveal that Mai Trung must arrange a busy work schedule, wake up at four every morning to train before work, and decline social invitations to protect his sleep. Records are just shadows. People are the real course. Dan Quyet carried a different aura. He waved at the camera while running, as if a 42km race had never made him nervous. But I have met too many athletes like that in my writing career. They smile the most when they are the most afraid. I learned to listen through late-night phone calls, when athletes say things they dare not say during the day. At exactly 3:00 a.m., the 42km runners left the start line. Dan Quyet, Dao Ba Thanh, and Mai Trung quickly pulled away. After about ten minutes, the two leaders still ran together, trading the lead. This is a familiar tactic in distance running: share the wind-breaking duty to save energy, but it is also a psychological chess match. Whoever breaks early faces wind resistance. Whoever follows saves energy but must run to the other's rhythm. I noticed Mai Trung was more focused, while Dan Quyet deliberately kept a relaxed pace. That could be a good sign for a long race – or a trap when they enter no man's land at kilometer 30. The white night in Russia taught me that the best tactic is the one nobody expects. In this race, the unexpected tactic might be someone willing to give up one second at kilometer 30. In the women's race, a surprise was coming from home runner My Hien of Nghe An Runners. She temporarily led with a personal record of 3 hours 7 minutes 39 seconds. My Hien's home advantage comes from something more important than cheers: she knows every turn, every water station, every sudden bump in the road. My heroes never raise trophies; they only whisper to the field of play – and My Hien was whispering to every meter of her own path. I spent most of my time watching runners at the water stations, where volunteers waited in the darkness with prepared bottles. Every small detail – table position, wind direction, the dampness of cold towels – can decide an athlete's performance at kilometer 35. Fans look at results to judge a race, but I have learned that great victories are decided by things nobody sees: worn-out soles, a water cup placed two centimeters off, a word of encouragement when dawn is about to break. What I cannot forget about this race is that the volunteers arrived the night before, received their assignments, and stayed overnight to be ready. They have no timing chips, no bib numbers, no cameras pointed at them. But they are the reason the race exists. There are athletes who never finish, yet still run forever in my memory – and there are volunteers who never run, yet I will never forget. The 42km race is still there, with a 10-meter gap between Mai Trung and Dan Quyet. But the real chase is not on the Cua Lo coastal road. It is in each person's head – at the line between chasing a promised PR and listening to a body that is calling for help. When dawn breaks on Vinh - Cua Lo Avenue, only one of them will step onto the highest podium. But what happens after is the more important question. Track and field resemble life in one way: everyone has a finish line, but few run the right path. So whether Mai Trung or Dan Quyet crosses first, the real winner may be the one who remembers why they started – before all the numbers speak.