For now, I’m filing half marathons under ‘a supposedly fun thing I’ll probably do again.’
I flew to Quy Nhon City on Saturday around noon, and the race was set to take off the next morning at 4:30 am. The Friday prior had been my birthday, and I went out with a big group of friends. I knew the weekend would be pretty taxing and tried to keep things measured, but nevertheless had one more rice wine shot than most would deem wise. Basically, you’re only young once, and these things happen. It wasn’t without its inevitable aftermath, though, as the next day when my plane was grounded on the tarmac without air conditioning for who knows how long, I had a semi-serious reckoning over calling the whole thing off in a state of overheated frustration. But soon enough I touched down at an airport built into the forest, hopped in a cab, and finally found myself on the sun-scorched street in search of the marathon registration booth.
As is probably obvious, central Vietnam in the summer is damn hot. I felt a little off that Saturday, but was nonetheless grateful the run would start unspeakably early; if sun wasn’t a factor, then things would be fine, I surmised. After I waded through the excited crowds shouting over blaring Vinahouse music in the city plaza to pick up my bib, I wandered around and was tormented with the smells of delicious seafood on beachside grills and freshly-fried Bánh xèo just outside my hotel. Having opted instead for a few bananas to tide myself over, this is a rare instance in which I can commend my own willpower.
Around 5pm, I met up with two friends who had also made the trip, Patrik and Guillaume, to go for a swim and share our mutual anxieties about trying to fall asleep at 8pm and wake up at 3am. The city is absolutely beautiful, and I can’t overemphasize the joy I felt in being able to stroll to a beach in fresh air, take a dip, and stare out at a totally new landscape. Even though seafood was sadly off the table, we did, after all, have to eat something, so, per Patrik’s recommendation, we hit the lone Italian joint in town. Over pasta (vegetarian primavera for me, lemon chicken for Patrik, and risotto sans cream or any form of dairy for Guillaume), I picked their brains about how these types of races worked. They were running the full 42km, so things like the day-before-diet were no laughing matter. To be honest, I didn’t even know what type of shirt I should wear, how long to stretch in the morning, and so much more. But I was only in it for 21km, so I figured the errors I would surely make wouldn’t be too consequential. Guillaume’s simple, effective advice: “just don’t do anything new before tomorrow.”
So I slept some and woke up to my alarm at 3:20 am, drank a water, four sips of day-old iced coffee, and some sort of power bar with a label I couldn’t understand, then followed a few others down the pitch-black street to the race takeoff. In no time I was in the thick of a crowd of thousands, stretching and taking selfies at the marathon gate. 3, 2, 1, go, and we were off, the sky still dark but the tiny cafes in town already starting to fill up with amused, tanktop-clad men. I started at the very back of the pack and took in the spectacle for the first little while before realizing I’d need to weave through a lot of people to meet the right pace. It took me a while to even find the 2 hour pace runner, but I eventually did and went along with that speed for a bit. Somewhere along the way, I took off my headphones and started chatting with a very interesting British guy who was a veteran of the Vietnamese marathon circuit. I wanted to talk more with him, but he, citing my youth, urged me to push on ahead of him.
At that point, I started up a massive bridge, put my headphones back in, and must have found an adrenaline rush. I’ll say that, overall, most of the race felt a little easier than I’d expected. The biggest reason for this is that there was water every odd kilometer, which was an immeasurable aid; I’d been training solo and only having water at the end of runs, so this felt, frankly, luxurious. And, of course, the scene was pretty special; as sunrise swept over the coastline, I was listening to Todd Terje and in a good place both sonically and physically. We ran across the bridge then turned around to tackle the slope that led back into the city, and I realized I could make a decent time if I kept on pushing. Because I’d had no experience, I figured anywhere around 2 hours seemed fine, but I decided to give it all I had and see where things ended up.
After descending the Thị Nại bridge, the bustling city center came into view. With just 1 kilometer left, I began to pass laughing families tackling a 5k together and squeezed my way to the finish. My time came out to be 1 hour, 49 minutes, 57 seconds—a success! I tried to remember to stretch my legs out, though the excitement got the best of me as I strode over to the finisher’s zone and grabbed a cold Hanoi beer. The beauty of Quy Nhon, too, is that I could hop across the main street and be at the beach, so I also took a quick swim (again: pure joy).
When the weekend was all said and done, I finally got the crispy Bánh xèo stuffed with prawns I so craved.