Chapter 7 — The Finish Line of Years Gone By

In mid-December, the provincial stadium was filled with people from early morning. This is the biggest tournament of the year for high school students across the province, bringing together athletes from more than thirty schools, including specialized schools with systematic training regimes, professional coaches, and standard rubber tracks for year-round practice.

Son stood in the warm-up area, looked around at the competitors wearing tight specialized uniforms and expensive trail running shoes, and felt the difference more clearly than ever. He was still wearing his old school sports outfit, and his mother had sewn the peeling soles back on his shoes last night with parachute thread, so carefully that he could barely see the stitches if he didn't pay close attention.

"Are you worried?" Teacher Khuong came closer and put his hand on his shoulder.

"Yes, slightly." Son confessed. "I see them all as professional athletes."

"Equipment does not make the athlete, it is the will that makes the athlete," Teacher Khuong said, his voice was firm like a maxim he had repeated countless times in his training life. "Do you remember when I was still competing? I ran in rubber sandals and still won the national bronze medal. My legs are strong, my lungs are good, my heart can endure. No one can buy those things with money."

He stopped, looked straight into Son's eyes, his voice lowered as if he was conveying something more important than a competition strategy. "Do you remember the lactate threshold exercise I gave you last week? Run six rounds of four hundred meters at a speed just below your body's tolerance level, so that your muscles get used to eliminating lactic acid faster. Today, in round three, when you feel your lungs burning, that's when your body is switching to that mode. Don't be afraid of it, just trust what you've practiced."

"Yes, I will remember," Son replied, feeling much more reassured thanks to that specific advice, instead of just general words of encouragement.

Son nodded, feeling somewhat reassured. He looked out into the stands and saw Khue sitting with Huan and Ky in the row near the track, holding a homemade sign made of cardboard, writing the words "Hồ Nhật Sơn — Vọng Hải" in red paint, and next to it was a familiar red cloth ribbon, which she carried as a lucky charm.

The men's 1500 meter event took place in the afternoon, after Son completed the 800 meter qualifying round in the morning with enough results to reach the final but not outstanding - he deliberately kept his strength, just like the strategy outlined by Mr. Khuong: 800 meters is just a warm-up exercise, putting all his effort into 1500 meters, his forte.

Sixteen of the province's best athletes lined up at the final starting line. Son stood in lane five, took a deep breath, looked straight ahead, trying to lock all the chaotic sounds from the stands into a far corner of his mind.

Gunfire rang out.

Unlike the regional tournament, in the provincial arena, the average speed of the whole group was much higher right from the first round. Son was forced to adjust his strategy on the spot — if he kept the pace too slow as usual, he would be left behind with a gap that would be difficult to make up in the final rounds. He decided to stick close to the leading group, accepting the loss of physical strength sooner than expected.

In the second round, an athlete from a specialized school in the province - who had the best performance on the registration table, four minutes and thirteen seconds - began to show his class, widening the gap with the rest. Son followed for a while, but clearly felt his legs were paying the price for the pace being too fast compared to what he was used to practicing.

By the third lap, he had dropped to fourth place, his lungs began to burn, and the most dangerous thought for any middle-distance athlete flashed through his mind: the feeling of wanting to give up, accepting a safe position instead of continuing to fight.

At that moment, amidst the chaotic noise of the stands, he heard Khue's voice, clearer and more decisive than all other sounds, as if she had practiced so that her voice could cut through all the noise.

"Son! Breathing! Two - three! Two - three!"

She was chanting the exact breathing rhythm that Mr. Khuong had taught—the rhythm Son had practiced for hundreds of sessions on the Bến Cá slope, which Khue had recorded, analyzed, and memorized even better than he had. In those moments of panic, he clung to that sound like a buoy, adjusting his breathing and finding his lost rhythm.

The last four hundred meters, as is always true in all middle-distance races, the leaders began to pay the price for being too fast in the previous laps. Specialized school athletes still hold the top position, but the gap with the following group has narrowed significantly. Son put all that was left in his tired legs, passing third place, then second.

The last hundred meters is a race between him and the specialized school athletes. The two of them were parallel, their strides almost in sync, and in that moment, Son no longer thought about the gap between rich and poor, about his old shoes or his unprofessional racing outfit - there was only the pure instinct of a body that had been trained for many years to never give up in the final meters.

He leaned forward in the last few steps, an ice technique that Mr. Khuong taught over and over again — pushing his chest forward at the right time to gain an advantage even if only by a few hundredths of a second. And he crossed the finish line first, at the exact moment the organizers' electronic clock stopped at four minutes, zero eight seconds.

New provincial record, for high school students.

Son collapsed on the sidewalk, his body shaking from exhaustion, but in his head there was only a white void of extreme happiness that he had never experienced. The loudspeakers announced his name, applause from the stood, and in the distance, he saw Khue running down from the student stood, still holding the cardboard sign, tears streaming from emotion.

A middle-aged man wearing a jacket with the Provincial Athletics Federation logo approached Mr. Khuong right after the medal award ceremony, shook his hand, and exchanged something for a long time before they both called Son back.

"This is Uncle Lam, in charge of recruiting young athletes in the province." Teacher Khuong introduced with an unusually solemn tone. "He wants to talk to you."

"Your performance today was very impressive, especially the way you handled the last four hundred meters." The man named Lam said, his eyes evaluating professionally. "Our province is planning to open an athletics aptitude class, recruiting promising young faces for more systematic training, aiming for future national tournaments. Do you want to participate in the physical fitness test next month?"

Son stood silently, not believing what he had just heard. This was an opportunity he never dreamed of — a formal path to pursue athletics not just as a school sport, but as a real career.

"I want to," he replied, his voice shaking with emotion. "I really want to."

"Then I will send detailed information to the school." Mr. Lam nodded, smiled, then turned to teacher Khuong. "You have trained this student very well, even though the conditions are poor."

"He tries his best, I'm just showing the way," Teacher Khuong replied, but his eyes looking at Son were filled with undisguised pride.

That evening, the whole team celebrated at a popular restaurant near the bus station, ordering a few more special dishes than usual with the small bonus the school had just received from Son's achievements. Huan endlessly recounted the finish line to anyone who would listen, exaggerating a few details each time. Ky, who rarely shows emotions, had to admit that it was a moment that gave her goosebumps.

Khue sat next to Son throughout the meal, still holding his hand tightly under the table as if she didn't want to let go, afraid that this happiness was just a dream that would disappear if she relaxed for even a second.

"You know, when you reached the finish line, I thought about the day I first met you at Bến Cá slope," she spoke softly, just loud enough for the two of them to hear amid the noise of the entire party. "At that time I just thought, there is a strange guy who wakes up early and runs alone without anyone watching. I didn't expect to see him standing on the podium like today."

"Without you, I probably would have given up in round three," Son said honestly, squeezing her hand tighter. "Your voice was breathing at that time, it really saved my life."

Khue smiled, her eyes sparkling under the old restaurant lights, and in that moment, they both believed that the future ahead would only be full of better things - none of them, including Son with his legs that had just set a record, could have imagined that just three weeks later, an event would strike, breaking everything they were building, and pushing them both into a distance farther than any race they had ever overcome.