What happened, Milo?

It was a big deal — at least to us. Apparently, the organizers did not feel the same way.

We flew to Iloilo last weekend filled with anticipation for the National Milo Marathon Finals. This year marked my second attempt to qualify for the Finals — and the first time I succeeded. For many runners, qualifying is not incidental; it is the culmination of months, sometimes years, of disciplined training.

Every year, thousands across the country attempt to qualify. Only a few hundreds do.

The National Milo Marathon began in 1974, long before the running boom swept the Philippines, as a single race in Manila. Nestlé envisioned associating the MILO brand with physical activity and fitness, laying the groundwork for what would become the country’s most enduring and influential running event.

By 1982-1983, regional qualifying legs were introduced, allowing runners nationwide to compete for slots in the National Finals. In the 1980s, the race began producing elite Filipino runners such as Rafael Poliquit, Arsenio “Boy” San Jose and Cesar Guarin.

The 1990s marked another turning point. Official time standards — stratified by age — were introduced. To be a “Milo qualifier” became the local equivalent of being a Boston qualifier: theoretically attainable for non-elite runners, but only through commitment, consistency, and sacrifice.

For the first time, a non-elite sporting event garnered serious media attention and corporate sponsorship. As participation grew, logistics improved, and the Milo Marathon became a fixture on the national sports calendar.

By the mid-2000s, Milo was funding elite athletes’ international training and competitions. Stricter cut-off times were imposed, and Milo “kings and queens” — the fastest male and female finishers — were sent to global marathons. Some, like Mary Joy Tabal and Christine Hallasgo, went on to become Southeast Asian Games gold medalists.

Given this history, one would reasonably expect the National Finals to be organized with precision and care. Sadly, that expectation was not met.

This year’s Finals were held in Iloilo City, a venue that, on paper, was close to ideal. The roads were flat and well-paved. Runners had traveled from all over the country, many having saved for months for airfare and accommodation. It was not unreasonable to expect that the level of preparation from the organizers would match the effort invested by the athletes.

It did not.

The gun start was at 2 a.m. at La Paz Plaza. With fewer than 400 runners, logistics should have been manageable. Yet the assembly area felt subdued rather than celebratory. There was no warm-up, no sense of occasion befitting a national championship.

Much of the course was run in near-total darkness. There were no intermediate timing mats and, in long stretches, no marshals. On an out-and-back route, this created a troubling vulnerability: it would have been easy for runners to turn back early without detection.

I had not considered the possibility of such misconduct until a runner who caught up with me in the final 10 kilometers remarked, “Buti pa si Ma’am, honest.” When I asked why, he pointed out that few runners of our pace seemed to reach the actual turnaround point. Only then did it occur to me: I could hardly recall seeing anyone approach it.

Perhaps no one cheated. But there was simply no way to know.

In most Manila races, at the very least, there is a timing mat, a marshal, or even a rubber band or token handed out at the turnaround as proof. There was none of that here.

Then there were the hydration stations. All but one offered only tepid water — no ice, no electrolyte drinks. This is a Milo event. One would think that providing iced Milo or electrolyte beverages would be standard practice.

More concerning, have the organizers never heard of hyponatremia? Excessive water intake without electrolytes can dangerously dilute sodium levels and, in extreme cases, be fatal. When I asked for ice or electrolytes at one station, a marshal asked why I hadn’t brought my own.

That response was telling.

This race is meant to showcase the best that non-elite runners can achieve. The athletes who qualify have already proven their discipline and commitment. The least they deserve is basic, competent support — something a large, well-resourced organization can easily provide.

Instead, many of us left Iloilo with the uneasy feeling that runners were being taken for granted, again.

The athletes who qualify for the National Finals are not asking for extravagance. They are asking for light on the road, fairness on the course, and care at the water station.

If Milo wants to remain the race that shaped generations of runners, it must meet its qualifiers with the same seriousness they bring to the start line.