The frigid wind and rain assaulted my body. Water streamed down my face, stinging my eyes until the world was just a messed-up watercolor painting. I could barely make out the desolate road ahead, dimly illuminated by the early morning sky, stretching on for seemingly kilometers.
My legs were like jelly and my entire body ached. The sickly sweetness of the energy gel clung in my mouth like a terrible decision. Oh, how I longed for the embrace of my bed, 200 kilometers away in Hanoi!
My eyes suddenly caught something bright up ahead. Water station? Another runner? I could read it now—
I started cursing out loud. “30km! Only 12 more!” I wanted to kick the sign like an insolent baby.
Yeah. Sure.
Why did I even sign up? What am I doing here? I didn’t even train properly. WHAT’S. THE. POINT!?!?
Three hours ago, 30km away, I was half bent-over on a park bench, wheezing, choking after trying to chug half a bottle of Powerade to wash down the granola bar I stuffed in one bite.
“All runners, please proceed to the starting line, the 42.195km category will start in 5 minutes!”
I took some deep breaths, did some last-minute stretches, and began jogging over to the flashing lights, desperately trying to warm up in the nine-degree cold of Hải Phòng’s winter.
I had been to a couple of large running competitions before and had grown to expect pretty much the same things: Booming, obnoxious club banger music blasted by rows of giant loudspeakers; a frenzy of race supporters running around, handing out cups of electrolytes, and manning baggage storage stations; a couple of MCs, way too loud and energetic this early in the morning (or late at night? it was 3 a.m.); and of course, thousands of buzzing runners crowded before the starting line, wearing all shades and manners of singlets, tight shorts, flashy shoes, and Garmin watches.
This time, though, felt different. This was my first marathon.
I made my way to the back of the crowd and started squeezing through to go to the front (so. many. people!), hoping that the few seconds I saved would be important. I did not know that by the time I finished the race, the last thing on my mind would be my running time.
Eventually I reached a jam-packed section and could not move any further. So I stopped, surrounded by people, and tried to calm my thrashing heart. I could feel the anxiety and electricity in the atmosphere and etched on the faces of runners all around me, shaking their arms, running in place to warm-up in the cold weather.
“The VnExpress Hai Phong Marathon 2024 will start in 1 minute! Runners, get ready!”
Oh boy oh boy. This is it. Your first marathon! Thoughts raced through my head. What semblance of a game plan I devised the day prior was gone, replaced by excitement, self-doubt, determination, fear.
“5, 4, 3, 2, 1, GOOOO!” The voices of the MCs and the rising music boomed over the loudspeakers as the crowd surged forward. I pressed the start button on my Garmin, triple-checked to make sure it was running, and started picking up my pace. It was difficult to run for the first few seconds since it was so crowded and we had to wait for those at the front of the pack to take off. Soon a cacophony of footsteps, music, shouting, and cheering erupted as the race had officially started.
One of the most surreal experiences I have always had during running events is the start. Being right in the midst of a part of a pack of hundreds, if not thousands of runners, the sounds of our feet trampling and deafening, surging through the empty streets at 3 a.m. through a cold night … that is something I never get bored of.
I settled into an almost leisurely place and observed all the commotion around me. People checking their watches, fixing their clothes, chattering excitedly with one another, … and so many people running ahead. I wondered if my pace was too slow, then reminded myself that I had 42km to go.
Soon my heart rate was rising, my heart was beating faster, and I was heating up. But I felt comfortable. My legs were completely fine. I was looking around, taking in the sights of the people and the empty city at night. I increased the pace a little bit. And I just kept going.
The first 28km was pleasant. Most of the race took place on a closed-off highway lane, so the road quality was excellent. The cold weather was also actually beneficial as it minimized sweating and overheating (something I always have a problem with in summer). I spent most of my time thinking about other things while my body was simply on autopilot.
I was cruising through, feeling good. Or, I thought I was. Then I started talking to other runners. They had trained for months—, endless long runs, speed work. My stomach dropped. Oh. I hadn’t done nearly enough. Had I even trained properly? Nope. And now, I was in it. Too late.
And then … Every runner hears about it. That dreaded moment in a marathon when your body seems to betray you, your legs turn to concrete, and every step feels like a battle. I had read about “hitting the wall” before, but I didn’t truly understand it until I experienced it firsthand.
Then, out of nowhere, I “hit the wall”. Kilometer 30. My energy tanked. My mind went fuzzy. The finish line? Ha. Might as well be in another country. My legs? Dead weight. My brain? Useless. Stop, it said. Sit down. Quit. Just be done already.
It’s difficult to fully recall, sitting here and writing this out, how enormous of a mental battle it was. People often describe “the wall” as the physical limit, but it was just as much of a mental limit too—like every anxious thought and self-doubt I’ve ever had showed up all at once and threw a pity party in my brain.
I wasn’t just fighting pain. I was fighting me. The version of me that wanted to give up. The voice that whispered, “Why are you even doing this? You don’t belong here. You didn’t train enough. You’re not built for this.” And the scariest part? That voice made some really convincing arguments. It didn’t yell—it nagged. Subtly. Persistently. Like a leaky faucet of negativity you can’t turn off.
Every time I passed a sign, a cone, a discarded cup, I had to choose to keep going. It felt like my body was looking for an excuse to stop, and my brain had to keep saying, “No. Not yet. Not like this.” There’s something deeply humbling about facing that kind of inner war—no music, no cheering, no distractions—just you and the quiet, gritty decision to move forward.
That’s the part no one really tells you about marathons. It’s not just about running. It’s about who you are when everything in you wants to quit.
But here’s the thing. I knew what I had signed up for: A full marathon. And I knew it would not be easy. I knew that if I stopped, I would regret it for a long, long time. Stopping would feel worse. So I told myself—just to the next street sign. Just to the next person holding that ridiculously colorful “KEEP GOING” sign. Just keep moving. Shuffle if you have to. Whatever it takes.
It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t graceful. Definitely wasn’t fast. But I kept going. And eventually—finally—I heard the crowd. The finish line was there. The last drop of adrenaline kicked in. I crossed. Relief? Yes. Triumph? More like sheer, exhausted disbelief. I had done it. I had to try my hardest not to stop in one place and crumble. But when that medal was on my chest, everything
Hitting the wall is brutal. Especially when you realize mid-race that you had no idea what you were doing. But here’s the thing: you can still finish. Even when your body quits, your mind can drag you forward. And that? That’s what makes it all worth it.
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