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Jetrue Stories, Cebu City (2026)

20/05/2026

- S**t. 6 More Hours? -

I knew what I signed up for.
The gunstart was at 10 in the evening.
Hours inside the dark were inevitable.

It didn't matter at first.
I was with friends and a hundred more runners that night.
Headlamps bouncing around the trails.
Some were rushing.
Some were taking their time.
The usual race energy.

We were talking and laughing.
Teasing and bantering are always present,
Making the dreaded distance bearable.

Past 10 kilometers, just right after the first aid station.
I started gaining distance on the climbs.
I knew my friends were still there. I can still hear them.
Passed some runners.
Then passed some more.

Familiar voices started to disappear.

I checked my watch, 12 kilometers in.
I was alone.

Completely alone.
I stopped for a second and looked around.

Nothing.

No voices.
No steps.
No light behind or ahead of me.
Just the dark forest and starry night above.

I got stunned.
Realization came in so quick.

S**t.

I looked at my watch.
Almost midnight.
Six more hours of this? Solo?

And for some reason, I got scared.
Didn't make sense to me.
I am used to this.
In almost all trail races, I did it alone.

If this was some years ago, I would understand.
Those who truly knew me, know, I was terrified being alone.
Even day time hikes made me uneasy.
Every sound felt suspicious.
Every wrong turn felt dangerous.

But over time, it changed.
I craved being alone.
I started looking for solitude.
Away from small talks or greetings, or other meaningless interactions.
Wanted quieter trails.
Long solo hikes.
Long solo runs.

So why in the world was I scared again?

Instinct?

All I know was, the forest felt heavier.
Trails looked narrower.
Different.
Not dangerous.
Just... wrong.

I kept checking my watch.
Checking the map.
Making sure I was still on course.
Every trail ribbon became important.

Then I realized, there's an aid station at kilometer 15.

That became the goal.
Just get there.
Keep moving.
Trying to act normal.
Trying to convince myself that I was just being ridiculous.

You signed up for this.
You wanted this.
You did this multiple times.
Why are you scared?

I saw flickering lights from a distance, the aid station.
Finally.

Light.
Voices.
People.
Relief.

I knew my friends were behind, and decided to wait for them.
Didn't care about losing time anymore.
F**k the time.
I just wanted familiar voices again.

S**t.
Six more hours.

18/05/2026

Minglanilla Trail Run Ultra 2026 - 50KM
Cebu Trail Ultra Series | Leg 1 of 3

4K race footage : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NByJjTVjr18

17/05/2026

- I've Seen This Before -

He couldn't run. He was fat and slow.
He would try.
Slow down.
Stop.
Then walk.

I've seen this before.

This was me some years ago.
Smoking. Drinking on weekends.
Overeating and oversleeping.
More comfortable on our bikes than on our own feet.

I experimented with running.
He didn't care and stayed cycling.
I got no structure and no guidance.
Just trial and error.

Run.
Struggle.
Adjust.

Eventually, I found something that worked.
Slow boring runs.
I got a coach and stopped guessing.

So when he said he wants to run.
I laughed.
"You can't run"
I told him.
Half-joking.

He was determined.
I nodded and gave him what I know.
Zone 2.
Nothing fancy.
Run until it doesn't feel like running anymore.

Run slow.
Build the engine.
Keep going.
Never stop.

I am not a coach.
Still not.
Just passing along what worked for me.

I gave him a pair of running shoes too.
One less thing for him to figure out.

Then I watched it happen.
Same pattern.

Start.
Stop.
Walk.
Try again.

First 5K.
Failed.
Had a good laugh about it.

10K.
He hit the target.
Wouldn't shut up for a week.

Now he's chasing his first half marathon.
Same guy who could barely hold two kilometers.
Obsessing over strategy.
Overthinking.
What-if's and what-nots.

Then I realized.
I've seen all of this before.

Same struggle.
Same doubt.
Same slow runs.

The only difference is,
this time I wasn't the one figuring it out.

I was watching it.

Today, he ran his first half marathon.
2:19.

We said 2:28.

13/05/2026

- F**k it. I'm Still Here -

So... I wanted to quit.
Not just this race. But running.
That's what I said to myself, somewhere in Lubas, somewhere past my comfort zone. I took out my camera and started talking to it.

Legs weren't responding anymore.
I wanted to run.
I really did. But I just couldn't.
No cramping. No pain. No injuries.
The legs just wouldn't listen.

So I walked. And talked to the camera.
As if confessing.
Or maybe I just wanted to air something out.
Release that lingering thought before it settled into a decision.

I'm negotiating now.

I can always go back to cycling.
My bikes are just waiting for me.
I've been browsing gravel bikes for the past few weeks anyway. Yes. I can just ride and never run again, this can work.
Okay. I'm quitting.

But somewhere deep in the back of my mind, something yelled back.
"We don't quit. We never quit."
Just finish this one. We'll decide later.

Maybe I was just frustrated that I was moving too slow. That I wasn't performing the way I wanted to.
I got sick a week before race day.
Maybe I was still carrying fatigue from my previous road ultra.
Maybe I was looking for reasons to quit because I had them.
A convenient excuse dressed up as logic.
But I don't quit.
I never quit.

So I did what has always worked.
I kept walking and pictured my family.
A cheat code.
More than enough to keep me moving.
I broke the remaining distance into segments.
Small enough to survive, small enough to not overwhelm.
"F**k it. I'm still here."
We pushed on. Finished what we started.

I pictured the finish line.
Friends.
Cold beer.
Food.

The relief of finally being done.
I held onto that image the way you hold onto anything when everything else is gone.
Just keep walking.
Just a little more.

Then there it was.
The finish line.
Friends.
Strangers clapping, cheering.
There it was.

Finally.

I wasn't crying. I wasn't triumphant.
Just relieved. It was done.
I grabbed the camera.
Still recording.
It heard everything.

07/05/2026

- I Had To Keep Running -

Bohol International Marathon. My first marathon.
The U-turn at kilometer 17.
I turned around and saw the road ahead.
It was dark.
The lamp posts lined up, they were waiting for me.
I thought it would give me hope.
But it was dread.
It was a long stretch.

"And I still have to run through all that?" The brain negotiated.
I was already alone.
Ityan had to bail.
Would have been nice to have someone familiar.
Share the weight of the distance.

"Will I be able to finish this?" Doubt whispered.
I shook it off, quickly, I tried.
But it got louder.
And the road got quieter.
I had to keep running.

"Can't give up. Push." I fought back.
I trusted the plan, I had to.
Hydrate even when not thirsty.
Gels are mandatory.
I had to keep running.

"This should be easy."
A lie I told myself. It wasn't.
Run tall. Land under the hips. Knees slightly bent.
I focused on mechanics to blur the uncertainty.
I had to keep running.

"Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional."
I'm sure I read that from somewhere.
I was not suffering, I convinced myself.
Just get to KM35, and you'll be fine.
I changed strategy.
I had to keep running.

I promised that I would finish.
Back home, asleep.
His smile.
His laughter.
That was enough.
Anxiety faded.
Strange that I was calm.
I was still running.

But.

I faded.
I was empty.
I walked.

Why?

I know the finish line was within reach.
I just had to keep running.

I dug deep.
Grabbed enough reason to go on.
I was almost there.
Just a few more.
I know this will end.
And it did.

Because I kept running.

04/05/2026

I Made It Home

One morning, in the bathroom. The post-coffee ritual.
Lit up a cigarette and started scrolling through random YouTube Shorts. Not his exact words, but somewhere in there, he said something like this:

"We all know the habit that's killing us. We just can't let it go."

I inhaled. Held it. Then exhaled.
I know.
This was it.
This is what he meant.
I shut the thought down before it could settle.
Shook it off.
Finished the cigarette.

Days and weeks passed.
Close to a pack a day. Binge drinking on weekends.
No celebrations. Nothing worth drinking to.
Just the exhale at the end of a long week.
Stress. Beer. Smoke.
See you next Saturday.

I can't remember the exact date.
But one Saturday evening, I was at Manny's.
The usual:
Monoblock chairs pulled into a circle.
Beer cases in the middle.
Glasses filled with beer.
Cigarette packs opened.

The night usually starts with banter, then wandered into everything else.
Deep. Shallow. Stupid. Funny.
The kind of talk that only happens when you are 3 beers deep.
An emotional rollercoaster I always call it.

The session bled into 2 in the morning.
I decided to go home.
Drunk. Which I denied convincingly, to my friend.
He tried to stop me, asked me to stay for the night.
The drive back home was almost an hour, dark, long, and a steep descent.

But I was stubborn.
Confident in my hands.
No worries. That's what I told him.

Hopped on my motorcycle.
It was cold, dark, and the descent was unforgiving.
The cold wind kept hitting my eyes, tugging at my eyelids, pulling them down.
I fought the urge to sleep.
I gave in.
Just one second.

Then.

Blank.

Baam!

The sound woke me up.
I hit the pavement.
I lay there, blinking at the dark.
I looked around, trying to figure out where I was.
The place looked familiar.
But why am I on the ground?

Then the memory rushed back.
I was at Manny's. Had a few, no, not a few, beers.
Drunk and stupid and breathing.

I looked around.
There's no one else.
Just me, my motorcycle, and the dark.

How did I get so lucky?
This could have happened in the middle of the city.
Or somewhere on the descent from Busay.
Anywhere.
But it happened here.
Close to home.

Divine intervention? Maybe.
Maybe guardian angels are real.
Maybe mine guided me through the entire trip, got tired,
and decided to let me go, just before I reached home.

I arrived home.
As if nothing happened.
Didn't tell my wife.
Am I nuts? She would not let me out again if she had known.

Next morning.
Coffee in one hand. Cigarette in the other.
I was watching my wife and son.
I could have not made it last night.
I could have died.
My son would have grown up without a father.
I could have not shared the trails with him.
That single activity I really wanted to do with him even before he was born.

I looked at the cigarette and remembered that YouTube clip.
It's time.
No more negotiations.
No more excuses.
Smoking and drinking.
I quit.

Then I decided to call Opling.
We need to hike. Again.

Maybe that's why I run now.
Why I chase long distances.
Why I sign up for things that I know will hurt.
Why I welcome suffering instead of running from it.

Not as repentance.
But as reminder.

A constant, leg-burning reminder of how good it is to be alive.
Not for myself. But for them.
Forever grateful.
For that night.

I made it home.

29/04/2026

What is your equivalent of a daily run?

I paused for a while.
And I think I found mine.

Coffee.

For years, I was fine with a simple drip or French press.
Then a close friend gifted me a small espresso machine.

Same ritual. Different steps.
Each morning. Grind. Dose. Distribute. Tamp. Brew.
Then wait.

My family is nearby. I can hear them.
My son talking and moving through the house, asking where his favorite lego set is.
My wife giving me reminders and instructions for the day.
Things I will surely forget.
The usual morning noise of a full house.

But in that small window of waiting, I am alone.

Physically still, watching coffee drip into the cup.
Mentally not still at all.

Restless.
Alert.
Already ahead of the day.

I am here, but also elsewhere.

And strangely, nothing happens if I miss it.
I am fine.
Which is what makes it interesting.
I don't need it. I just keep coming back.

Not dependence. A choice.

Not something I can't live without.
Something I choose to return to.

Every day.

27/04/2026

"Pila ka oras imong run today? (How long is your run today?)

As I am tying my shoes, just right before my coffee, without fail she would ask me that.

Not too sure, maybe she just wants to know how long she'll have to wait? Maybe adjust her schedule, or maybe she's genuinely interested in my workouts. I rarely share the details with her. It never crossed my mind that she'd want to hear about power zones, threshold intervals or why the run today is called "easy".

I would give her a simple answer, "an hour or maybe two". Mundane. But gets heavier each time I sip the coffee.

I tried to shake it off.
But like the week-old mud at the bottom of my shoes, it just won't go.

I said my goodbyes and kissed her and the kids. She heads to the kitchen because breakfast must be ready before the day and the kids get too crazy.

I checked the route, the zones, and the target. I wanted to go, but this thought wouldn't leave.

We used to hike together. She was there when Bukal Outdoor Club was created. She stood with me on my first summit of Mt. Talinis. She was the silent push whenever the pace dips, the hush when I get too loud, the grounding voice when I get too high.

She loves the ocean. Swim and dive. I always joked that we were too different to work. Somehow we did.

She's a teacher.
And weekends aren't vacation. Quizzes must be graded. Lessons are planned. Projects are checked. And now kids must be fed.

Shoes tied.
Standing at the door.
I took one more look, and that gentle smile is enough.

I get to run. I get to do the things I love because I have her behind me. I can recall, numerous times, that when a workout gets too hard, when the hills get too steep, when the road won't just end, her face, their faces, would be enough reason to push on.

How lucky am I, that her question is, "How long is your run today?"
Not, "Do you really have to run today?"

26/04/2026

"Abi nako'g exercise rani?"

Why "Rice is Nice"?
Sounds like a rice advocacy group?
Agriculture?
Or if you are into it, Lemon Pipers fans?

Sorry to disappoint, but we are runners. Or as we try to be. We are a product of partying too much in our 20s and chose endurance sports as a pre-midlife crisis hobby.

I got invited and joined without knowing what the name meant, and I didn't bother to ask. Who knows, maybe these guys just wanted to eat rice.

All I know is these people are passionate about running, signing up for almost every event possible. Some have goals. Some just run for the sake of running.

I can't tell who first said it or when, but the phrase "abi nako ug exercise rani" was eventually uttered. Not sure if out of regret or joy.

But one thing was certain: it was the moment we realized this was no longer just a hobby.
No longer one-shoe-fits-all.
No longer running by feel.
No longer run until tired.

The Sub-1 hour 10KM Challenge was when it really struck me.
This was getting serious.
People cared about seconds.
We raced like it mattered.
Some finished wrecked. Some nearly puked.
Everybody suffered.
And nobody treated it like "just exercise" anymore.

There are now easy and recovery shoes, long distance shoes, tempo shoes, and race-day shoes.
There are debates between Garmin or Coros, and
Wrist-based or chest-strap heart rate monitors.
Training plans.
Training zones.
Easy runs. Intervals. Tempo runs.

We train like pros.
We recover like pros.
Doubtfully. Hehe.

We do love our running shirts though. Weird but trendy designs. Sometimes alien, sometimes acid-trip psychedelic because our main designer is an avid alien and conspiracy guy.

We don't set limits either.
We do trail runs too. As if we are already so good on the road that we must seek more difficulty on the trails, yet we walk or hike it every time.

We love our Sunday long runs. A perfect day to showcase our fitness.
Except instead of a steady and comfortable pace, we tend to race each other.
Nobody admits it.
But we all know.

After a year in this group, most of us accomplished our running goals.
Our groupchat is still alive and well.
Early morning greetings followed by the regular banter.
It isn't all fun and games though.
Injuries, burnouts, setbacks, these plagued the group at one point or another.

But in spite all that, everybody still shows up.
Running for maintenance.
Running for the sake of running.

That's the thing about a good running group.
It's not the pace that keeps you together.
It's not the race results or the matching alien shirts or the Sunday PRs nobody admits to chasing.

It's the showing up.
Through injuries.
Through burnouts.
Through days when running is the last thing you want to do.
Everybody still shows up.
And somehow, that's enough to keep going.

Abi nako exercise rani.
Maybe it was.
Maybe it became something more.

Either way, I'm glad I didn't ask what the name meant.
And please, don't tell me.
It’s better that way.

24/04/2026

Kantaloy Is Not on Any Map

Somewhere deep in the forests of Buhisan, just a little off the famous Spartan Trail, lies our little patch of heaven. A small clearing near a creek. Teeming with wildlife, quiet in a way where humans haven't ruined it yet. No markers, no signs, no leading trail. Just forest, and then more forest, and then, if you know where to look, there it is.

We called it Kantaloy. Or Kang Talyo. For obvious reasons.

We called ourselves Talyo and Friends too. Which started as a joke and somehow became official.

Talyo is one of my oldest friends. I named the place after him, and later the group as well, without too much thought. Surprisingly, both stuck.

Post-pandemic, after a long hiking hiatus and a questionable stint in cycling, I called Opling.

We need to hike again. Nothing serious. Just movement before we became ghosts of our former selves. Talyo joined. He wasn't around much during the Bukal days because of work, school, and later a job abroad.

There were no grand plans.
No expectations.
No summit goals.
Just old friends wanting their hiking lives back.

We started at a nearby hill called Starbuks, now swarming with hikers. Then Frances came. My cousin and younger brother tagged along as well, bringing with them their friends and classmates. So there it was, us the old heads of Bukal Outdoor Club, walking with the new breed of hikers.

We needed a name.
Of course we did.
We were slowly becoming an outdoor group. Someone brought it up during a hike, and after approximately five seconds I said, Talyo and Friends.

Everybody laughed.
I tried defending it by being funny. It fits. It's Talyo and whoever shows up.
No pressure.
No membership.
No exclusivity.
Just Talyo and his friends. It stuck because it was honest.
Funny but honest.

So when we are not doing long hikes, running, or camping, we end up in Kantaloy.
Cooking.
Laughing.
The usual banter bounces off the trees like it belongs there.

Tito Nats does most of the cooking. Talyo usually helps.
Opling's main concern is always how the milled corn is cooked, as if the fate of the universe depends on it.
Frances will be doing Frances stuff, building things out of nothing, or climbing something he absolutely shouldn't.
I prepare the coffee.
The rest chill.
And if the creek is generous that day, everybody bathes.

It's a simple gathering.
I think of it as our weekly exhale from whatever holds us in real life, jobs, duties, responsibilities, training.
It's a breather.
We need no reason to gather, whoever is free that day is welcome to join.
I don't know about the other guys, but Kantaloy is a place where I feel most free.

Talyo and Friends is not Bukal Outdoor Club.
Bukal was ambition. Peaks, summits, survival camps, mountains on a checklist. We were building something back then, ourselves, our skills, our courage. We were young and we didn't know anything, and yet we were proud of it.

Talyo and Friends is something else.
It's what comes after you've already proven something to yourself. We no longer chase summits. We leave those to the younger ones. It became a place where I pass down what I know to the new breed.

The hideout is enough.
The best part of the day is not the trail but the meal at the end of it, eaten with people who know you well enough to not need explaining.

Kantaloy is not on any map.
That is the point.

22/04/2026

Bukal Outdoor Club

We knew nothing. That's basically how I can sum up our beginnings. This was before the hiking boom. It existed but was niche, not too mainstream, and trails weren't crowded.

I started this club around 2014, not because there were no existing clubs at that time, but because we were scared. As I've said, we knew nothing. So instead of fitting in, we decided to start our own. Me and four other close friends: Opling, Bungot, Bonska, and Cirilo. We began reading blogs, Facebook groups and pages on where and how to get to specific hiking or camping destinations.

Our most memorable, our "mother mountain", was Mt. Babag in Cebu City. The trail starts at Napo and ends at the summit of Babag, just right near the RCPI Towers. The trail back then was hard, especially on the ascents in Kahugan, where the soil was loose and hot during midday. There was a time we spent every Sunday hiking there, and sometimes, when time permitted, we set up camp and spent the night at the nearby Chalet Hills campsite. I have a lot of stories about that place. It should be its own piece.

Then there was the Budlaan Trail, which starts at Baugo, passes through Kabang and Budlaan Falls, and ends in the hills of Kan-irag. This trail is different because it involves river trekking and real danger, especially on the parts where you climb the sides of the waterfall. There were no ropes. We only relied on footholds, tree roots, branches, and just the will to live. The most unforgettable instance was when we hiked during heavy rain. The river was flooded, neck-deep or even deeper, and we had to do multiple crossings. Ignorance is bliss. But for some reason, we brought a rope. Long enough to help us cross. We tied Bungot on one end, tied the other to a tree, and let Bungot brave the raging waters. I was so thankful we were alive back then. And even now, with all the experience I have, I will never do that again.

One more core memory was our adventures and misadventures on Mt. Lanaya. Again, I want to point out, in case you missed it, we knew nothing. So we bought cheap tents. We called them "Gaisano tents", costing us 200 to 300 pesos back then, and we were proud of how cheap they were. Securing decent tents was a pain. You had to order online. The hike was brutal. We were inexperienced, the heat was unforgiving since the trail was exposed with no tree cover. Night came, heavy rains, and the camp flooded. The tents didn't stop the rain. We had camped in a low area where water was trapped. We were all wet, soaking, shivering. But we managed to laugh it off. Ignorance is truly bliss.

Our first major hike was Mt. Talinis in Negros. By then, we had gotten serious. Decent gear, hiking shoes, pants, quick-drying shirts, real tents, and multiple hikes under our belts. We were ready. Or at least we thought we were. It was a whole different experience. Cold, damp, everything wet, steep climbs, mossy forests. It was the best hiking experience we had. The Twin Falls in Valencia, the sulfur vents and river, the lakes Nailig and Yagumyum, and the Mt. Talinis summit are to die for. Everything was small from up there. To this day, I have been to Mt. Talinis seven or eight times and still want to go back. That’s when my son is ready.

We were on a roll. We climbed Mt. Kanlaon and Mt. Pulag. Some went to Mt. Mandalagan, Kitanglad, Dulang-dulang, Kalatungan, and Mt. Apo. We were frequent visitors of local mountains here in Cebu. Manunggal, Mauyog, Naupa, Osmena Peak, and Mt. Kapayas to name a few.

We did survival camps and wilderness first aid. Did I mention we got serious? Hehe. We took on the first segment of the Cebu Highlands Trail. Another topic worth its own piece.

As all good things, it had to end. Or fade. Everyone got into something else. Family. Work. Some stayed with me in Talyo and Friends. Others are still active but not like before. I am okay with it. Life happens. But I'm sure we all miss those days.

One day, I'm going back to Mt. Talinis with my son. And oh boy, the stories I have to tell. Hehe.

Jetrue Stories

20/05/2026

18/05/2026

17/05/2026

13/05/2026

07/05/2026

04/05/2026

29/04/2026

27/04/2026

26/04/2026

24/04/2026

22/04/2026

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