VM Nghe An 2026: Mai Trung and Dan Quyet Duel Across 42km as My Hien Leads the Women's Race

Three in the morning, and the Ho Chi Minh Square still held the chill of the Nghe An night. Floodlights cast a pale yellow wash over the concrete, just enough to reveal neat rows of plastic chairs and the empty space behind the starting line, where no one was yet seated. At exactly three o'clock, the horn sounded. The 42km runners left the line, beginning the longest journey of the opening day of the VnExpress Marathon Grand Tour in Nghe An. Ten minutes later, at the head of the pack, three names had separated from the rest: Dan Quyet, Dao Ba Thanh and Nguyen Mai Trung. Of those, the two leaders shadowed each other so closely it was hard to tell who was setting the pace. Mai Trung was focused, eyes fixed ahead. Dan Quyet was looser, occasionally waving at the camera. The gap between them was around ten metres, a distance marathoners call within sight, meaning no one had yet gained a real advantage. Those ten metres were the entire story of the men's 42km race at that point. It was not a safe gap, nor a hopeless one. It was the ambiguous state that defines marathon running: two athletes level across forty-two kilometres, destined to split at a point nobody can predict, usually after kilometre 30, when the body begins negotiating with the will. Before that, from half past two, hundreds of volunteers had already arrived. They worked alongside the operations crew, while local police, traffic police and medical staff were mobilised for security, traffic control and medical support along the route. From the evening of 26 September, volunteers gathered at the start area to receive assignments and familiarise themselves with procedures. After the briefing they were deployed to points along the course to install infrastructure, complete aid stations and set up cheering zones. Even earlier, on 25 and 26 September, the Nghe An Labour Culture House hosted bib collection. It was the first time the event had been staged in the hometown of President Ho Chi Minh, with four distances: 5km, 10km, 21km and 42km. A new race on Nghe An soil, but carrying the entire operating system of a series that has already run through many provinces. The start line sat at Ho Chi Minh Square. From there the course passed Ho Tung Mau, Truong Thi, Le Nin Avenue and joined Vinh - Cua Lo Avenue. After roughly 16km, the route turned onto Binh Minh, ran along the Cua Lo coastal stretch and looped back at Cua Xa. The finish was on Truong Thi Street, at its junction with Le Van Huu. The event's timing was layered by distance. At three o'clock, the 42km runners started. At four, the 21km field set off, with cut-off points at km 10 at 5:40 and km 16.9 at 6:50, and the course closing at 7:30. At five, the 10km started, with a cut-off at km 6 at 6:15 and the course closing at 7:00. At six, the 5km ran entirely in the city centre, with no cut-off and the course closing at 7:15. That layering tells its own story about the hierarchy of distances. The shorter races start last, when the sky is already light, when the stands are full, when family and friends can line the road and clap. The 42km starts at three in the morning, when the city has not yet woken, when runners must carry their own light. They run in darkness for roughly the first ninety minutes, before sunrise breaks over Cua Lo. Among the crowd preparing to start were familiar names: Dan Quyet, Dao Ba Thanh, Le Van Huong. Beyond the elite group, the start line also featured host clubs such as Nghe An Runner and Ha Tinh Runner in striking pink shirts, lifting the mood at the assembly area. Before the gun, people including Thanh Meo and Vinh Runner remarked that this was one of the races with the fewest 42km runners, making it favourable for chasing places and personal bests, and that the Nghe An course was fairly fast and well surfaced. That assessment is technically sound. A 42km field with fewer runners means fewer collisions, less crowding at aid stations and less psychological pressure from being dropped or overtaken. For the elite, it means room to run their own rhythm without having to respond to someone else's contingency plan. But it also exposes another reality: Vietnam's full marathon pool remains thin, and its thinnest part is the women's field. Back to the race. At 2:50, the athletes had already gathered before the start line, warming up. At three, they were away. Ten minutes later, Mai Trung and Dan Quyet were running side by side. They traded the lead. The gap hovered around ten metres, enough for each to sense the other's breathing but not enough for either to give up. Nguyen Mai Trung, 35, from Hanoi, works in e-commerce and is a member of Thanh Cong Runners. He drew attention in the capital's running scene with a time of 2 hours 41 minutes 55 seconds at VnExpress Marathon Hai Phong 2026, placing 69th on the list of the fastest full marathon runners in Vietnamese history. A figure that puts him among the fastest runners in the country, while placing the expectations of an entire community on his shoulders. In the women's race, My Hien was leading at that point. Her personal best is 3 hours 7 minutes 39 seconds, and she runs with Nghe An Runners. This is the notable detail: the women's leader is a host runner, running the very road she trains on every day, in front of spectators who know her name. It is worth spelling out the gap between the two personal bests. Mai Trung covers 42km roughly 26 minutes faster than My Hien. In athletics that is no small difference, but it does not tell the whole story. Each is running a different race, against a different set of rivals, under a different set of pressures. For Mai Trung, the direct rival is Dan Quyet, a runner with enough experience to know when to lift and when to hold. For My Hien, the direct rivals are often absent from the start list. This is the familiar paradox of women's marathon in Vietnam: she leads not necessarily because she is faster than everyone, but also because several runners of comparable or better standard simply were not at the start line. To understand why, look at how a race actually operates. A female runner who wants to line up over 42km must solve several problems at once. She must build enough training volume over months, usually sixteen to twenty weeks. She must arrange work and family to fit long weekend runs. She must cover travel, accommodation and entry fees. And she must accept that if she finishes third or fifth, her odds of being named in the press remain lower than those of a male runner finishing tenth. Compare the two profiles and it becomes clearer. Mai Trung, 35, in e-commerce, a member of a Hanoi club, where running infrastructure is relatively complete and a large community sustains motivation. My Hien, of Nghe An Runners, running in a province whose scene is rising but not yet dense. Both are serious runners. But one steps to the line as the hunted, the other as a host runner carrying responsibility. Back to the sporting detail. The fact that Mai Trung and Dan Quyet traded the lead through the first ten kilometres is a good sign for both. It shows neither was dragged into too fast a rhythm, and both were running inside their comfort zone. In marathon, the first ten kilometres are always the easiest and also the easiest to get wrong. Amateur runners typically go out ten to fifteen seconds per kilometre faster than target pace, and pay for it at km 32. One point worth noting about the Nghe An course: the stretch from Ho Chi Minh Square out to Vinh - Cua Lo Avenue is fairly straight and flat. The Cua Lo coastal section carries higher humidity, a crosswind off the sea, and road surfaces that can be slicker after overnight mist. With the 42km field starting at three in the morning, most of the coastal stretch will be run in darkness, when the wind has not yet strengthened and temperatures are still low. That is a rare advantage of an early start. But it also means they will run the closing stretch in early sunlight, and must finish before the Nghe An September heat peaks. This is why cut-off points at the shorter distances are set fairly tightly. The 10km has a cut-off at km 6 at 6:15 and closes at 7:00. The 21km has cut-offs at km 10 at 5:40 and km 16.9 at 6:50, closing at 7:30. These markers exist not only to guarantee safety and release the roads, but to maintain the event's time standard. Runners chasing long distances need to understand that the clock here does not serve them; they serve the clock. The story of My Hien leading the women's race takes us to the least discussed part of any marathon: what does not appear on the results sheet. Standing in the finish area on Truong Thi Street, I usually spend more time looking at the stands than at the timing clock. Reading a scoreboard, I learned to read what is not written down. The results sheet tells you who won, who came second, who set a personal best. It does not tell you who had to get up at two in the morning to catch a bus, who had to ask a relative to mind the children to make the start line, and who had to abandon a final training session because of a meeting that could not be postponed. In My Hien's case, leading carries a double meaning. It is the achievement of a runner who has trained enough to reach a personal best of 3 hours 7 minutes 39 seconds. But it is also an indicator that women's marathon in Vietnam still depends on a small number of individuals. When a race has few 42km runners, a female host runner leading becomes newsworthy, rather than normal. This is the point I want to spend more time on, because it is the part most easily skimmed over in sports reporting. For years, the seemingly simple question has been: why do fewer women run full marathons than men? The answer is fairly dry, and mostly lies in the structure of time rather than in ambition. A standard marathon programme requires three to four runs a week, including a long run of two to three and a half hours. That long run must happen early in the morning or late at night, because that is the only window most working people can arrange. For those still carrying most of the caregiving work, that single window is usually already gone. The problem does not stop at training time. It also lies in recovery time. Marathon requires enough sleep, enough food and enough rest between sessions. For people who must get up early to get children to school, recovery is a luxury. And so it is not that women's ambition is lower, but that the everyday infrastructure around them has not been arranged to support that ambition. From this angle, a new race in Nghe An means more than a sporting event. When an event chooses Nghe An as a stop, it brings infrastructure, operating standards and a large number of runners from other provinces. More importantly, it leaves behind a course. That course will become a training ground for local people after race day. Every new course built to proper standards is a long-term investment in the running scene, and that investment usually benefits most the runners who have the fewest opportunities to take part. On this point, the volunteer force deserves mention. Hundreds of volunteers who arrived from the evening of 26 September created a layer of intangible infrastructure for the race. They are the people at the aid stations, the people pointing the way at turns, the people keeping order at junctions. In marathons, this role is usually folded into a single line of thanks at the end of an article, when in reality whether an aid station works well or badly can decide a runner's entire race at km 35. This matters especially for the 42km field. Running long distance in darkness, an aid station that is not clearly marked costs a runner a few seconds stopping to locate it, and those seconds multiplied across forty-two kilometres become a significant amount of time. For the elite, every second at km 40 is worth roughly every second at km 5. Back to the men's race. The fact that Mai Trung and Dan Quyet ran together early is not just a compelling development but a tactical decision by both. In marathon, running behind another athlete saves considerable energy by reducing wind resistance, especially on straight, exposed stretches like Vinh - Cua Lo Avenue. Drafting can save two to four percent of energy, a figure that sounds small but at km 38 is the difference between finishing and collapsing. But running together carries a cost. When two runners shadow each other, each must constantly read the opponent to decide whether to lift. Making decisions continuously while the body is tired is a form of cognitive drain that marathon does not treat lightly. Some runners perform better alone, because they do not have to think about anyone but themselves. With a ten-metre gap ten minutes after the start, both still hold the advantage of reading the opponent without yet paying the price of chasing. If Mai Trung is the one to break, he will need a tactical point, typically the turnaround at Cua Xa. If Dan Quyet attacks, he may choose a gentle rise or an aid station entry, where an opponent loses momentum. This is the type of analysis live coverage rarely has time for, because it must follow events. But it is the core of understanding how a marathon is actually unfolding. In the women's race, My Hien's leading position raises a different question. As a host runner, she is running a familiar course before familiar spectators. That advantage is real, but it carries a burden few mention. When a female athlete leads a race in her own hometown, her entire performance is read through a local lens. If she wins, it is the province's pride. If she does not, the question becomes why the host let the title slip. That burden does not appear on the results sheet, nor does it appear in post-finish interviews. But it exists, and it shapes how a female athlete manages her pace. This is a phenomenon I have observed many times in nearly twenty years covering athletics and running: female athletes tend to carry a higher level of representative expectation, and that level rises when they compete near home. There is a telling detail in both leaders' records. Mai Trung has a 2:41:55 at VnExpress Marathon Hai Phong 2026, 69th on the list of fastest full marathon runners in Vietnamese history. My Hien has a personal best of 3:07:39. Both are good enough to lead a regional race. But placed side by side, the gap between a national top 69 in the men's field and the women's lead in Nghe An shows how thinly women's marathon talent is concentrated. Notably, neither is a professional athlete. Mai Trung works in e-commerce. My Hien runs with a local club. Women's football has a national team, a national league and a development system. Women's marathon has amateur runners, community clubs and weekend races. That is the entire infrastructure. So when a race declares an aim to grow the sport, what should be measured is not participation at 5km, but the number of women completing 42km. The 21km distance also deserves mention, as it is the most densely populated distance at Vietnamese marathons. With cut-offs at km 10 at 5:40 and km 16.9 at 6:50, and the course closing at 7:30, this distance creates clear time pressure. Runners start at four and must clear km 10 within one hour forty minutes. For most amateurs that is entirely achievable, but there is not much room for error. The 10km, with a cut-off at km 6 at 6:15 and closing at 7:00, is similar. A 10km runner starting at five has one hour fifteen minutes to clear the first six kilometres. That is an average runner's pace, but for beginners it can become a hard limit. As for the 5km, starting at six with no cut-off and closing at 7:15, it is the distance for the many, where families run together, where children can touch a sports festival without special preparation. It is not the flashiest part of the event, but it is the most populated, and that is why it exists. From here, an observation about how a modern race is organised. Four distances in one day are not merely four levels of challenge. They are four customer groups, four spending levels, four levels of media. The 42km builds sporting credibility. The 21km generates revenue. The 10km generates participation. The 5km generates family imagery. A successful race balances all four. But precisely because those four carry different commercial value, they receive different levels of attention. And within that attention structure, women's marathon is treated most fairly technically and most unfairly in terms of racing hours. This is the point I want to state plainly. When a race starts the men's and women's 42km together at three in the morning, technically that is fair. But commercially, it means the women's race takes place and ends in a window when there are almost no spectators on the road and almost no cameras following. What remains after the race is the results sheet and footage from the finish. But the entire stretch that determines performance, from km 20 to km 40, is recorded by no one. I have stood in empty stands for many years covering women's sport. In the stands in Russia, I heard many empty seats bearing women's names. The same is true at domestic races, except here those empty stands sit at km 25 at four in the morning, when a female runner passes a stretch where not a single person stands to cheer. And that is precisely why some stories outlast the results sheet. Forty-five minutes on the sidelines of a pitch, a lifetime that never grows old. In marathon, the equivalent window is not forty-five minutes on a pitch, but the time between the start and sunrise, when a runner is alone with her breathing and the road. Looking at the men's 42km race ten minutes in, it is clear this contest was set up to unfold in a very traditional way. Two leaders, one proactive, one reactive. One working in a big city with a developed running community, one running country roads. The ten metres between them is the distance between two approaches to marathon, and it will be settled in the closing kilometres, when both have spent their initial reserves. If Mai Trung holds his rhythm and breaks successfully, he will cement his place among Vietnam's fastest runners. If Dan Quyet turns the race around, he will prove that long-distance experience still carries its own weight, and that a relaxed runner can beat a focused one once the race enters the pain zone. In the women's race, if My Hien holds the lead to the finish, the result will be recorded as a host runner's victory. But its true value lies elsewhere: it shows a local club in Nghe An can produce a runner capable of leading a long distance at a race of national scale. The final question does not lie in today's result. It lies in whether, over the next three to five years, the number of women completing 42km at Vietnamese marathons rises. If the answer is yes, what is happening in Nghe An will be remembered as one of the starting points. If the answer is no, each new season will again be a race where the women's leader is mentioned as a surprise, rather than as a given.