Ha Thi Hau and the Sa Pa rain: 100 kilometers of composure

Rain was still falling over Sa Pa when the clock stopped at 12 hours, 54 minutes and 43 seconds. Ha Thi Hau crossed the finish line in her soaked kit, without raising her arms in celebration, without looking around for someone to embrace. She just stood there, hands on her knees, drawing long breaths as if trying to swallow the thin mountain air. Behind her, the 100 km course still carried the imprint of her shoes mixed into the mud. Ahead of her, a name had just been carved into the history of Vietnamese trail running – not because she ran faster than all the men, but because she had run through her own fear. The VMM 2026 – Vietnam Mountain Marathon – closed after four days from September 17 to 20, gathering approximately 5,300 athletes from 54 countries and territories. Despite its name, the event is actually a six-distance trail-running festival: 10 km, 21 km, 50 km, 70 km, 100 km and 160 km. Since 2026, it has been regarded as the first ultra-trail race in Vietnam, and Sa Pa – with its steep slopes, narrow slippery paths and unpredictable weather – has become the most demanding companion any athlete must face. The 100 km distance was identified by organizers as the centerpiece of this year's edition. Not because it is the longest – 160 km is the most brutal challenge – but because the battle in this category followed an unexpected script. From the opening kilometers, Ha Thi Hau stayed close to Rylin Nakache, an international athlete described as a formidable rival for most of the journey. They took turns leading, their footsteps pounding rain-slick ground, crossing steep sections and narrow switchbacks where one small mistake could end the race. The difference was not speed, but patience. When the rain intensified around kilometer 70, when temperature dropped and visibility narrowed to a few dozen meters, Ha Thi Hau chose to tighten her breathing rhythm and maintain an even pace instead of forcing the pace. She let Nakache push ahead, then gradually caught back. At kilometer 90, in the darkness of the passes, she made her final surge. The gap widened. The Vietnamese woman crossed the finish line in 12:54:43, claiming first place among women and – notably – second place overall among all male and female athletes in the 100 km category. Elsewhere in the event, dramatic stories were unfolding. The 160 km distance witnessed the comeback of Junghyun Lim from South Korea, who finished first in 24:53:27. Nguyen Si Hieu, a Vietnamese athlete, placed second in 26:51:49. Meanwhile, the women's race left spectators holding their breath: Man Yee Cheung and Giang Thi Linh finished just two seconds apart – 29:40:42 versus 29:40:44. Two seconds, after nearly thirty hours of fighting the mountains. Two seconds, possibly born from a trembling step at kilometer 140. The 70 km race was equally tense. Vang A Tung finished first in 8:55:16, just six seconds ahead of Ly A Song. Six seconds – enough time to blink three times, yet the product of hundreds of kilometers of endurance. In the women's category, Phuong Thi Hong Nhung finished first in 11:36:26. Meanwhile, Ruqin Wang crossed the line first in the 50 km race with a notable time of 5:00:53. Statistically, the six distances paint a clear picture: Vietnamese trail running has depth at shorter distances, while international athletes dominate the longest category. But there is something the results table cannot show. In the 160 km race, the top three women are Man Yee Cheung, Giang Thi Linh and Nguyen Thi Tra Giang – a mix of Hong Kong and Vietnam. In the 70 km race, names like Vang A Tung and Ly A Song echo as a reminder that mountain running is a sport of people who live among the mountains. They may not appear in major news headlines, but they are the soul of the event. When I stood in Sa Pa during those rainy days, I remembered a question people often ask me: do women understand sports? I did not answer. I only thought about the women running through the forest, from Ha Thi Hau to Giang Thi Linh, from H'Mong mothers jogging along terraced fields to city girls conquering their first 50 km. They do not need anyone to acknowledge that they understand sports. They only need their legs to carry them to the finish line. Before they were athletes, they were people carrying dreams in search of home – that saying has never felt truer than when I watched them run through the mountains of Sa Pa. The point here is not that a Vietnamese woman won – that fact is beautiful in itself. The point is how we read results. Many headlines quickly chose the phrase "ran faster than all the men." But the truth in the results table: Ha Thi Hau finished second overall, meaning there was still a male athlete faster than her. Her second-place standing among all athletes does not diminish her victory – on the contrary, it places her in a respectful position where she competes not only against women but also against male athletes with superior physiques. But if we need a sensational headline to appreciate that, perhaps we are misunderstanding the meaning of victory. Deeper still, there is a blind spot the results table rarely reveals: the system. Ha Thi Hau did not win because of structured investment, a personal coach, a specialized nutrition plan, or a sponsor. She won because of her legs, her persistence, and a bit of luck with the weather. But elite sport cannot survive on persistence alone. The 160 km distance – where international athletes dominate – shows the gap between a developing running community and a professional one. For more Ha Thi Haus to emerge, we need more than one big race per year. We need a youth development system, athlete data, and recognition from governing bodies to turn individual victories into a foundation for an entire generation. When the last rain finally stopped over Sa Pa, the stands near the finish line had emptied. Event flags still fluttered, but no one was watching them. I stood there for a moment, listening. Wind passing through the terraced rice fields. Water trickling down the mountain streams. And the sound of silence itself – a sound only those who have run far enough can hear. The quiet field has its own nostalgic sound, and so does the empty trail. It tells of footsteps that have passed, pains that have been overcome, tears that fell in darkness and were washed away by rain. The remaining question is not how fast Ha Thi Hau can run. She has proven that. The question is whether we have the courage to see what her victory is saying: that a girl running through the mountains can compete on equal terms with the world, if given the chance. And if that is true, then every step she takes – like every step of all the other women running – is not merely an achievement. It is a promise. A promise that tomorrow more girls will dare to step out of their homes, dare to run in the rain, dare to place themselves on unexplored trails. And when they reach the finish line, we will not have to say they were faster than anyone. We will simply say they were there. At the end of 100 km, in the Sa Pa rain, on a September afternoon.