Recreational runners lace up for all kinds of reasons—fitness, routine, stress relief, or simply the joy of movement. But for Peter Muya, known on Strava as The Poetic Runner, the story began far from home and for entirely different reasons.

He had been sent on a consultancy assignment in a place where everything felt foreign. No family. No familiar comforts. And with French vocabulary limited to “bonjour” and “merci,” even simple conversations with taxi drivers dissolved into nods, mumbles, and improvised sign language.

To fill the long, quiet evenings after work, he and a colleague began taking long walks. They became a small anchor in an unfamiliar world. Then one evening, mid-stride, the colleague glanced over at him and said, “You walk too fast. Why don’t we try running a bit?”

And that simple suggestion changed everything.

So they did.

On that first run, there was a steep hill that should've destroyed Peter. Instead, he charged up the hill while his colleague fell behind, wheezing. "That's when I thought, huh, maybe I can actually do this," he says. He ran alone the next day. And the day after. By the time he flew home, the habit had stuck.

Bernice thought it was hilarious. "He left as a walker and came back obsessed with pace and splits," she says. She'd always been the one dragging friends up Ngong Hills or signing up for random hikes. But running? That seemed pointless. "I liked my exercise with views, not just sweat."

Still, Peter's enthusiasm was hard to ignore. She joined him for a jog. Then a longer one. Then somehow, a race.

That's how it started: one bored guy on foreign streets, one woman humoring him when he got back, and both discovering that running had something to say to them.

Being a techie, Peter quickly became obsessed with the metrics—distance, pace, heart rate, mileage. He moved from 10Ks to half marathons, then full marathons, and finally ultras. He naturally gravitates toward the long, punishing stuff. Bernice, meanwhile, prefers the 10K–21K range. Different training schedules, similar race calendars. “We’re both runners,” she says, “but we’re running completely different races.”

That independence sums them up well: a team, each doing their own thing.

For Peter, running is thinking time. No phone, no music, no chatter—just breath and footsteps. “That’s where my head clears,” he says. Most of his book ideas, including The Contender, arrived somewhere between kilometer five and ten. He’s not the guy you pick for “good vibes” pace groups, but he tries—offering bits of hard-earned wisdom when running in a group.

Bernice runs for a different reason: proof. Proof that she can do hard things. She started with a 10K, then 21K, then the full 42K. “Each finish line made me ask—if I can do this, what other limits have I imagined?” Running rewired her confidence, reshaping her work, her parenting, and even the bold dream of writing a book.

For the Muyas, running isn't just cardio. It's a whole philosophy.

Peter tells the story of Frankfurt—the marathon where he tripped and fell halfway through, bleeding and bruised. "It was bad," he says. "But stopping would've been worse." He limped. He walked. He finished. 

Bernice has her own version. Knee pain nearly ended her running career. Instead of quitting, she found workarounds—different therapies, adjusted training. That detour turned into a side business selling supplements and coaching people on health. "Running made me stubborn," she says. "In a good way."

They both think the world's gotten too soft—too many shortcuts, not enough real challenge. "We treat discomfort like it's dangerous," Peter says. "But that's where you grow. Running reminds me to do the hard things."

The structure of training—early mornings, sticking to plans, showing up in the rain—has seeped into the rest of their lives. "Running taught us rhythm," Bernice says. "You can't fake consistency. You earn it, one kilometer at a time."

Peter runs in three-month cycles—build, taper, rest, repeat. That discipline shows up in his writing and work. Bernice applies the same focus to business. "When you've run 42 kilometers, nothing else seems that scary," she says.

Sure, they've both changed physically—leaner, stronger. But the real shift is internal. "Running clears my head," Bernice says. "I come home in a better mood."

Peter agrees. "Running keeps your ego in check. You always find a hill that reminds you you're not that good. I am not the same person I was 17 weeks ago when I started training for Frankfurt Marathon."

Their kids are starting to notice. Their daughters are considering running; their son prefers other sports, which is fine. "We don't push," Bernice says. "We just show them that exercise doesn't have to suck."

Friends and neighbors ask how they stay motivated, how they find the time. Peter started a men's running group at church, mixing faith and fitness. "We talk about everything—family, work, life—while running," he says. "Therapy on the move."

Bernice mentors women just starting out. Her advice is simple: "Walk if you need to. Nobody cares about your time but you."

For the Muyas, every race is a metaphor. You register, nervous. You train. You show up. Somewhere in the middle, you want to quit. Then you finish—and realize that crossing the line, however long it took, changed something in you.

Peter puts it this way: "Running teaches you stuff—patience, how to push through. You just have to do it enough times for it to sink in."

Bernice adds, "And once you learn it, you start wondering—what else is possible?"

That's the real story. Two people, one journey, many finish lines. Together but distinct. Competitive but kind. Always running, always becoming.

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