Introduction: A journey on wood and memory
Eight years after leaving Ethiopia for England, I found myself caught in the monotony of an intense biochemistry degree at Imperial College London. My days were spent in labs, lectures, and a routine that felt more like a cage than a classroom. In the midst of studying health and the science of life, I realized I was losing parts of my cultural identity—the warmth of family, the rhythm of the Ethiopian day, and a sense of belonging that couldn’t be measured in milligrams or microliters. Then I did something unusual: I built and rode a wooden bicycle the length of the United Kingdom.
Why a wooden bike?
Wood, not carbon fiber, carried my hopes. The bike was a project of memory as much as mileage: a craft that required patience, humility, and a willingness to start over. Every cut, joint, and polish reminded me that identity is not a fixed destination but a living craft—something you assemble, adjust, and repair along the way. A wooden frame felt like a bridge between past and present, a tangible reminder that culture can be both sturdy and flexible.
From London to the borderlands: a landscape of lessons
The journey began in the capital, where the city’s tempo mirrors the intensity of a lab bench. As I pedaled out of the suburbs and into the countryside, I encountered a spectrum of weather and wind that tested both my physical stamina and my resolve to stay true to myself. The route wandered through ancient towns, rolling hills, and long stretches of coast where the sea spoke in a language older than any degree. Each mile carried a question: Could a wooden frame, a foreign-born body, and a resilient heart coexist in a culture that feels at once familiar and foreign?
Small moments, lasting echoes
There were quiet victories: a passerby sharing a cup of tea at a village shop, a child asking how the bike was made, or a farmer offering a sheltered space during a sudden rainstorm. These small interactions stitched together a broader narrative—one where identity is strengthened by connection rather than isolation. The more I rode, the more I learned to listen for the stories that travel with me in every gust of wind and every mile marker in the roadside hedges.
Culture, courage, and the science of resilience
Moving from Ethiopia to England extended beyond a change of address. It was a reconfiguration of self: a scientist who still craved circles of kinship, a student who needed to breathe beyond the lab’s sterile air, and a traveler who asked the countryside to reflect his inner landscape. The wooden bike became a metaphor for resilience—the ability to bend without breaking, to adapt without erasing who you are. Along the route, I learned to translate cultural memory into daily practice: a rhythm of meals, prayers, music, and humor that kept me grounded when the road grew uncertain.
Returning with a new compass
When I finally pedaled back toward London, the city’s skyline looked different. Not because the architecture had changed, but because my perspective had. The trip taught me that identity isn’t a fixed passport stamp; it’s a living archive, updated by every conversation, every shared tea, and every time I’ve chosen to stay connected to my roots. The wooden bike—humble, patient, and stubbornly enduring—remains a symbol: a reminder that you can travel far, carry a heritage with you, and return with a stronger sense of who you are.
Conclusion: A journey that continues
My UK-wide ride on a wooden bicycle wasn’t merely a test of endurance; it was a pilgrimage toward belonging. It showed that culture travels with us, even when geography pulls us away. If you’re chasing your own sense of home, start small: mend your craft, listen to your history, and take the time to ride toward the parts of you that feel most unfinished.
