VM Nghe An 2026: Mai Trung and Dan Quyet Trade Metres in the 42km, My Hien Leads the Women's Field

At exactly 3:00 a.m., the sound of shoes striking the road surface in Ho Chi Minh Square was clearer than the loudspeaker. Nghe An was still dark, the high-pressure lamps cast a pale yellow light over the start line, and in that hazy pocket of air, three coloured jerseys separated from the pack almost from the very first strides: Dan Quyet, Dao Ba Thanh and Nguyen Mai Trung.

I followed the course through screens and through calls relayed from the aid stations. Nobody was cheering. There was only breathing, the steady sewing-machine rhythm of feet, and the hum of a lead vehicle crawling ahead. In the longest event of an early-morning race, silence is the most brutal thing of all. Runners do not hear the crowd; they hear only themselves. With no cheering at all, I could hear my own applause more clearly.

And within the first kilometre, the story of the men's 42km was already set: the two leaders locked together within a few metres, while behind them the race against the ranking sheet, and against each runner's own body, quietly unfolded.

The Grand Tour reaches Uncle Ho's homeland for the first time

VnExpress Marathon Grand Tour Nghe An 2026 marks the first time the event has been held in the homeland of President Ho Chi Minh. The race offers 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. That is a notable difference from many other races, where start and finish lines sit kilometres apart to exploit the terrain. In Nghe An, all four distances share one start and one finish, differing only in their turnaround points.

Bib collection took place across 25-26 September at the Nghe An Labour Culture House. This is the phase least covered by the media but one that decides a great deal about the quality of a race. Runners collect their numbers, their shirts and their goodie bags, and across those two days they also absorb information about the course, the cut-off times (COT) and the aid stations. A 42km runner who does not read the COT map carefully can pay for it with an entire training cycle.

The backdrop matters too. The annual season is crowded, road races are proliferating across Vietnam, and the amateur running community is entering a phase of selection. People no longer run for the movement; they run for personal targets, for a personal best, for a specific time mark. And every overnight race like VM Nghe An has to answer one technical question: is the course fast enough for people to break their own records?

The course: from a flat boulevard to a windy coastal strip

Split the 42km course into halves and the tactical picture becomes clear.

The first half runs from Ho Chi Minh Square through Ho Tung Mau, Truong Thi and Le Nin Boulevard before joining the Vinh - Cua Lo Boulevard. This is a wide, brightly lit, effectively flat stretch. For a 42km runner it is the fastest section and also the most dangerous one. The pressure of a flat course is that it never teaches your body that you are running faster than you should.

After roughly 16km, the route turns onto Binh Minh and takes runners along the Cua Lo coastline before a turnaround at Cua Xa. This is the most technically interesting part. Running by the sea before dawn brings a temperature advantage but also a wind penalty. Around 4-5 a.m., the Cua Lo wind is usually light; by around 6 a.m., as the sun lifts off the water, both direction and strength shift noticeably. Runners turning at Cua Xa, some twenty-plus kilometres in, hit exactly that window.

The Cua Xa turnaround is the hinge of the whole race. By then a runner has burned more than half the distance, the legs are showing early fatigue, and they must retrace the same road with the same wind, now head-on. A marathon is rarely decided in the first 21km. It is decided in the second, when every technical advantage turns into a physiological test.

The 21km starts at 4:00 a.m. along Ho Tung Mau, Truong Thi and Le Nin Boulevard, then straight down the Vinh - Cua Lo Boulevard. After the turnaround at roughly km 11, runners return toward the city centre and finish on Truong Thi. This distance has two cut-off points: km 10 at 5:40 a.m. and km 16.9 at 6:50 a.m. The course closes at 7:30 a.m.

The 10km starts at 5:00 a.m., from Ho Chi Minh Square through Ho Tung Mau, Truong Thi, Le Nin Boulevard, into the Vinh - Cua Lo Boulevard with a turnaround at roughly km 5, then back along the same route to the finish. It has one cut-off at km 6 at 6:15 a.m., and the course closes at 7:00 a.m.

The 5km stays entirely in the city centre. Starting at 6:00 a.m., runners pass Ho Tung Mau, Truong Thi, go up Le Nin Boulevard, turn around, return via Truong Thi and finish at the Le Van Huu junction. There is no cut-off, and the course closes at 7:15 a.m.

One detail is worth analysing. The organisers' published information lists cut-offs for the 21km and 10km but not a separate cut-off for the 42km. With the longest distance starting at 3:00 a.m. and closing later, that means the time pressure on the full marathon field is considerably lighter than on the half marathon field. It is a small but important signal: the race has structured its time windows around the principle of prioritising the longest distance. Marathoners are given room to finish rather than being squeezed into a hard mid-course mark.

The operating machine: the invisible half of a race

To serve the event, the organisers deployed hundreds of volunteers alongside operations staff at numerous positions. Local police, traffic police and medical personnel were also mobilised, handling security, vehicle control and medical support along the course.

From the evening of 26 September, volunteers gathered at the start area to receive assignments and familiarise themselves with operating procedures. After the briefing they were distributed to points along the course to install infrastructure, finalise aid stations, set up cheering zones and complete the necessary items before runners entered the race.

Across many years of watching and commentating on races, I always look at this part before I look at the results. An aid station placed ten metres off line, a turn without signage, a stretch of road not properly barricaded - any of these can turn a good race into a ruined one. The night of 26 September is the most important night for the operations team, and also the night nobody mentions when the results are published.

From a professional standpoint, Vietnamese road racing over the past two years has shifted its centre of gravity from promotion to operations. That is a sign of a maturing market. Runners are starting to ask about safety, medical cover and aid-station quality before they ask about medals.

Two leaders: one locked in, one smiling

Ten minutes after the start, the two elites Mai Trung and Dan Quyet were running side by side. They traded the lead. Mai Trung looked focused, eyes on the road, shoulders relaxed but arms short and even. Dan Quyet was the opposite, keeping a loose demeanour and waving at the camera as he passed the first filming point.

Nguyen Mai Trung, 35, from Hanoi, works in e-commerce and is a member of Thanh Cong Runners. He caught the attention of the capital's running scene with 2 hours 41 minutes 55 seconds at VnExpress Marathon Hai Phong 2026, a result that placed him 69th on the list of the fastest full marathon runners in Vietnamese history.

The 2:41:55 mark deserves close reading. For an amateur runner outside any national squad, that average pace over 42.195km works out at roughly 3 minutes 50 seconds per kilometre sustained for more than two hours and forty minutes. That is a threshold many serious runners take years to touch, and it turns Mai Trung from a club name into an opponent you can build a race plan around.

The interesting part is how he leads. Mai Trung does not attack on the flat. He holds rhythm, sits close, observes. At 35 he is in what athletics research calls the maturation window of a marathon runner: the aerobic base is built, injuries have taught their lessons, and above all the runner knows he cannot win on inspiration, only on a plan.

On Dan Quyet's side, his relaxed expression is not a sign of a casual run. In long-distance racing, a runner who keeps a loose face early is usually the one controlling heart rate and breathing well. Facial tension, clenched shoulders and gritted teeth are the real signals of someone running beyond themselves at the tenth kilometre.

Two different styles on the same road produced a duel rarely seen in Vietnamese amateur racing. Normally, in a crowded race, the lead group splits very early and the contest becomes entirely individual. Here the two stayed roughly ten metres apart. That gap has technical meaning: close enough to observe, far enough not to trip, and wide enough to sustain a long psychological contest.

The women's race: My Hien and the home-ground surge

In the women's field, My Hien is currently leading. She holds a personal best of 3 hours 7 minutes 39 seconds and runs for Nghe An Runners.

A 3:07:39 puts My Hien in the leading group of Vietnamese amateur women's marathon running. The average pace is roughly 4 minutes 27 seconds per kilometre, and for a woman racing on home soil that is an uncomfortable number for anyone thinking about following.

But the more interesting factor is the home-ground identity. Nghe An Runners is a local club, and having a runner from this very province lead the women's race at the event's first edition here adds another layer of meaning. Home runners hold advantages in terrain, weather, daily rhythm and above all psychology. They know where the wind hits, where the road tilts, where the surface is poor. That knowledge appears on no course map.

In coaching terms, a runner familiar with the course can save meaningful energy through precise distribution of effort. Runners who do not know the route tend to run conservatively early and then try to make it up late, a strategy that only works with a clear fitness surplus. Home runners do the opposite: they dare to go fast where speed is needed, because they know where the hard parts are.

One small detail reveals the shift in Vietnamese women's marathon running. A decade ago, amateur races barely had enough women running the full marathon to form a genuine contest. Today, a women's 42km field can produce a leader with a personal best under 3 hours 10 minutes. Stars are not born in finals; they are born in races nobody watches. Here, the races nobody watches are the 4 a.m. long runs around Vinh, with no crowd, no camera, only a watch and a repeating road.

The rest of the field and the pink jerseys of the home clubs

Before the start, the 42km runners gathered at the line in Ho Chi Minh Square, warming up and preparing for the race. Familiar names such as Dan Quyet, Dao Ba Thanh and Le Van Huong were in the field.

Beyond the elites, the start line featured home clubs such as Nghe An Runner and Ha Tinh Runner in striking pink jerseys, generating a lively atmosphere. In the darkness before the gun, a block of pink is the easiest thing to spot. It also says something about the community structure of Vietnamese running today: local clubs have become the organising nucleus rather than informal running groups.

Clubs matter more than outsiders usually realise. They supply training plans, long-run partners and self-monitoring mechanisms. For an overnight race starting at 3 a.m., having a teammate to walk with from the hotel to the start, someone to hold your bag, someone who remembers when to take a gel - those apparently tiny details decide performances.

Speaking before the race, Thanh Meo and Vinh Runner noted that this was one of the races with the fewest 42km runners, creating favourable conditions to compete for places and break personal bests, and that the Nghe An course is fairly favourable with good roads.

The trap of a thin marathon field

That observation sounds entirely positive, and in one sense it is. But it deserves a longer pause, because this is where I think the running community often misreads the situation.

A race with few 42km runners creates at least three competitive effects. First, the odds of a high finishing position rise, meaning the prize zone is wider than usual. Second, psychological pressure in the closing kilometres is lower, because there is no crowd to fight through. Third, the chance of a personal best is higher, because runners do not have to constantly change rhythm to overtake.

But there is a flip side that gets overlooked. In long-distance running, a crowd is a form of assistance. It is not only cheering. A surrounding pack creates a natural rhythm-pulling effect, keeping a runner inside the target speed band without constant watch-checking. When the field is too thin, the runner has to do that job alone. Every pacing decision must be self-generated, and on the Cua Lo coastal stretch where the wind shifts direction, self-generating pacing decisions through the final twenty kilometres is a costly exercise.

This is why many runners set personal bests at crowded races even when the course is not faster. It is also why some runners surprise themselves at thin races: they belong to the group that self-regulates well rather than the group that follows well.

Across the four distances tonight, ranked by difficulty of energy distribution, I put 42km first, then 21km, then 10km, then 5km. The shorter the distance, the fewer consequences a mistake carries. The longer the distance, the more every small decision compounds and is repaid with a stretch of suffering.

As for the course, "good roads" is really a technical description. It means smooth surfacing, few potholes, no sudden bridge gradients, few sharp turns. Together these reduce the mechanical cost of every stride. A smooth course can save one to two per cent of total energy compared with a rough one over the same distance. That sounds small, but at the thirty-fifth kilometre, one to two per cent is the difference between holding form and collapsing rhythm.

What will decide the men's 42km

With Mai Trung and Dan Quyet only about ten metres apart early on, I think this race will be decided at three moments.

The first is the bend at Cua Xa. This is where the field changes direction and changes its interaction with the wind. Whoever takes the bend cleanly, holding arm rhythm and breathing through the change of heading, gains the psychological edge immediately afterwards.

The second is the return leg on the Vinh - Cua Lo Boulevard. It is flat, long and visually monotonous. In an overnight race, this is where the body has to switch to reserve fuel. Runners who hold rhythm here are usually those who calculated correctly from kilometre ten.

The third is the final two kilometres on Truong Thi, when the field is back near the city centre and urban noise returns. For a runner who trains in Hanoi, running in city space is familiar. For a runner used to the coastal road, the sudden shift in sound and light can cost rhythm for the first few hundred metres, which is enough to lose a gap.

And there is a variable I always stress in distance analysis: experience at thirty-five. Nguyen Mai Trung belongs to the group of runners who have been through many training cycles, who know at which kilometre cramps arrive if salt is mistimed, who know how many gels two hours and forty minutes requires. That experience does not show on a watch, but it appears in the right or wrong call at kilometre thirty-two.

The rest of a Nghe An night

By the time the 42km runners were around forty minutes in, the 21km field set off at 4:00 a.m. Then the 10km at 5:00 a.m., then the 5km at 6:00 a.m. The Nghe An course was filled by four separate waves of runners over three continuous hours. The first aid station served the fastest group; the last served those running for health.

This architecture goes unnoticed. A road race in Vietnam today serves elite performers and recreational runners simultaneously, on one course, under one operations team. Coordinating four distances with four start times, four speed bands and shared road sections is a far more complex logistical problem than it appears.

Across years of watching races from a professional position, I have learned that the quality of an event is not found in the moment the winner crosses the line. It is found in the final fifteen minutes, when the last runners finish, when the course is nearly empty, when a few volunteers wait at the finish with bottles of water in hand. The stadium is empty, but the heart of football still beats - and in running, the road is empty but the rhythm of feet goes on.

For VnExpress Marathon Grand Tour Nghe An 2026, the first edition in the homeland of President Ho Chi Minh, the historic value lies somewhere other than the results sheet. It lies in a new generation of runners gaining another course to measure themselves against, in local clubs gaining another home ground, and in unknown runners at kilometre thirty-eight gaining another reason not to stop.

Mai Trung and Dan Quyet will run together for many more kilometres before one of them breaks away. And My Hien, a daughter of Nghe An Runners, sits at the front of the women's field. The race has only just begun, and in the dark before sunrise, all anyone can hear is the sound of shoes on the road. In the places nobody watches, I find the thing the whole world will talk about later. Today, in Ho Chi Minh Square, that thing was two jerseys ten metres apart, in a city still asleep.