Mang Jun: He, Who Cannot Run
By Quinn Iderf Quiñanola | Photography by Vincent Aldous
“Huwag mag-alala buhay ay ‘di karera.”
(Don’t worry, life is not a race.)
The voice of the famous girl group, BINI, spills from the rusty, battered speaker of a tricycle, the melody above the hum of traffic, cutting through the morning haze. It hums like a balm, trying to soothe the racing heartbeats of those who feel that they are running out of time, behind, last—a soft reminder that there must be no haste. But for the people who live at the starting line of society, those who live with empty pockets, empty stomachs, and even emptier promises—life is a race, a relentless, unforgiving one; a race not against people, but life. Oftentimes, what we fail to see is this: some have already lost before they even had the chance to run, and some of those who are quietly carrying this defeat are the tricycle drivers—men like Manong Jun.
In the city of Mandaue, life takes place on the pavements. Livelihood is earned through the grind of gears, the grip of calloused hands on handlebars, and the daily gamble of weather, traffic, and luck. This is how life goes for Mang Jun.
For Mang Jun, every morning begins with the same ritual: a handful of coins tucked into a worn belly bag for those who pay with paper bills in the early morning, a kiss goodbye from his wife and their three daughters, and a prayer that the day brings enough to make tomorrow possible. To Mang Jun, tricycle driving isn’t just a living, it’s the life itself.
“Sa tanan trabaho, ngano tricycle driver imong gipili, Kuya?” I asked.
(Out of all the jobs, why did you choose to be a tricycle driver?)
“Wala naman koy lain choice siguro. Mura’g mao nalang gyud ni ang trabaho nga naay dakong kita na pwede nako buhaton. Naa man sad koy experience drive-drive, pero mao lang sad hinuon na,” he replied.
(I don’t think I have any other choice anymore. This might be the only job left that actually brings in enough income—one I can still do. I have experience with driving, and that’s just it.)
“Pila man ka libot imong mabuhat gikan Opao [a baranggay in Mandaue] padulong mercado niya balik nasad?”
(How many rounds can you make from Opao to the market and back again?)
“Mga traynta, naa ra ana. Sukad nana alas kwatro sa kadlawon hangtud alas dyes sa gabii. Mas dako pa siguro na akong mga tuyok kung di na nako kinahanglan maghuwat ug mga pasahero. Dugay sad makuha sa akong oras, need pa nako maghuwat, samot pa kanang maglinya sa mercado pud!” he exclaimed.
(Around thirty, give or take. That’s from four in the morning ‘til ten at night. I could probably do more trips if I didn’t have to keep waiting for passengers. A lot of my time gets eaten up just waiting—especially when I have to queue at the market too!)
“Feel nimo igo ra imong sweldo para sa imong pamilya?” I posed a question.
(Do you feel the income you get is enough for your family?)
“Dili, mga pila raman ako makuha sa adlaw, 700… 800… ana. Naa pakoy bayronon sa TODA, 25. Naa pay bayronon sa gasul, bayrunon sa balay: kuryente, pagkaon, tubig, abang, grocery namo. Salamat nalang siguro summer pa karon, wala pay bawn sa mga bata, pero unsaon nalang tingklase na balik, magproblema pako asa ko mokuha pamalit school supplies,” he replied.
(No, I only really make about 700… maybe 800 pesos a day. Then I still have to pay the TODA 25 pesos. There's also gas to pay, and the house expenses: electricity, food, water, rent, groceries. I guess it helps that it’s still summer, no school allowances yet for the kids. But once classes start again… I don’t know where I’ll get the money for their school supplies.)
Tricycle drivers have an association called the Tricycle Operators and Drivers’ Association (TODA). There are always a few letters before TODA like SHOPTODA, RATODA, and MILTODA, with all of them pertaining to the specific route the tricycles ply. Tricycle drivers have to queue to get their passengers. The queue is always long but fast-moving, especially during rush hours. As for Mang Jun, he belongs to Mandaue, Maguikay, Casuntingan, Cabancalan Tricycle Operator Driver's Association (MCC-TODA).
While there are membership perks for tricycle drivers, like safety seminars and other workshops, they have to pay if they want to operate for the day. They have to compete with other drivers for passengers, too. The more TODA members, the longer the queue, and the less chance for more trips and more passengers.
“Diskarte-diskarte lang sa tricycle kay unsaon man, hanap na kaayo para nako akong diploma. Aw kay basta baskog… kayod… trabaho lang gihapon. Wala nay lain mobuhi sa akong pamilya,” said by Mang Jun in a joyful yet slightly bittersweet tone.
(It’s all about finding ways with the tricycle now—what else can I do? My diploma’s become nothing but a blur to me. But as long as I’m strong… I’ll keep grinding… just keep working [tricycle driving]. No one else can support my family.)
Mang Jun once dreamed of more. But dreams, he says, are expensive. In his world, education is a palace with locked gates, reserved for those born with keys—the scholars, the rich, the brilliant. “Only the smart and the wealthy get ahead,” he tells me in Bisaya. “People like me, the poor, the unremarkable… we get left behind,” his words land like stones, “I am a dog.”
“Ganahan gyud ko mag-engineer bitaw, pero unsaon man, bugo kaayo ko sa una uy tag-75-75 ra akong grado. Di ko kapasar, way makatabang nako kay akong ginikanan wa man say nahuman. Wala, niundang nalang ko, mura’g wala nay paglaom para nako. Samot pa pag high school, pait na kaayo uy, mura’g dili na ma-afford sa ako pamilya.”
(I really wanted to be an engineer, you know? But what can I do—I wasn’t smart back then; my grades were just 75s. I couldn’t pass, and no one could help me because my parents didn’t finish school either. So I just stopped. It felt like there was no hope for me anymore. Things got even harder in high school—it was just too much, like my family really couldn’t afford it anymore.)
He was called bobo. Useless. Forgotten. So he left the classroom behind—not because he wanted to, but because he had to. And now, he drives. Every day, he drives. Not for himself, but for his children, so they won’t have to in the future.
His diploma may remain a dream, but his sacrifice is real. It lives in every kilometer traveled, every peso earned, every meal placed on the table. His life is a quiet rebellion against the system that left him behind—a vow that his children will reach the finish line he never could.
Mang Jun’s story reminds us that education should not be a luxury. It is a right. No child should grow up believing that classrooms are out of reach, or that intelligence is something you must prove with papers.
To some life shall not be a race,
To some, life in itself is the race
To Mang Jun, it is the latter,
He drives because he cannot run,
or he thinks so.
Quinn Iderf Quiñanola wrote this piece in partial fulfillment of the 2025 Pathways Creative Nonfiction class assignment taught by Mikael Borres.
Recommended Song: Karera - BINI
