They say that writing is easy – all you have to do is open a vein, and bleed. It is hoped that with every word we spill, we are one step closer to the authentic self. The spilled ink series encourages everyone to reflect, ponder, and share – to tell stories. With these pieces, we hope to explore the art of writing collectively with BRIDGE and the Waterloo Architecture community.
Written by Sarah Gunawan, this short narrative tells the journey of a 1100km cycling trip from New York City to Cambridge, ON. This piece was published in Issue 03 of Ground Up – a publication by the students of Berkley Landscape Architecture School. The trip is further documented through photographs, maps and notes.
I’m not from here
We departed on the overnight Greyhound, carried through the darkness and across the border. Glowing street lamps passed by, and, I turned over in futile attempts to sleep, restless with anticipation. Morning came and the skyline gazed at us from across the river; the bus rattled through the tunnel, passing below the water, and emerged in the city’s beating heart. We were here.
We would stay for a time—lounge on the great lawn; eat Indian food among the cab drivers; cross beneath the massive steel of the bridge and wander the streets, lost in conversation. We would relish in all that the city had to offer, knowing we wouldn’t remain long.
Eventually we packed our saddle bags, mounted our bikes, and, with determination, set out on the road. From the seat of a bicycle, the world takes a different pace: not stagnant, not accelerated, but slowly, constantly rolling. The pedals turned, and suddenly we were somewhere between one there and the next, caught, here, in the middle.
Each morning we cycled, following the lines of the map. Curious locals took note; they knew we weren’t from here. Facing the red of an intersection street light, a mother pulled her car up alongside us to inquire. Where are you going? We told her of our plan; where we had been, where we were going. She turned the corner, wishing us well, hoping she, too, would someday ride from here.
Each afternoon we took rest. We wound through hills and descended into a nothing town in the valley, barely a mark on the landscape. Famished and aching, we feasted on a simple shepherd’s pie at the only place with an open door, cuddled with playful barn kittens, and then perched outside on the curb to eat ice cream.
Each evening we arrived at the edge of a new town, just beyond the doorstep of a new stranger. Blanketed in darkness, illuminated by campfire, we communed. The wolves howled in the distance and we shared stories of our passage, late into the night.
Each day followed the same rhythm. Peddle, pause, eat; then peddle again. Arrive. Unpack, unfold, wash; then eat and sleep. Awake. Fold, pack; then wave farewell and pedal away again.
For 684 miles, here was an amorphous thing sliding from point to space to feeling. Here was the taste of a stolen apple from a trail side orchard, the darkness of a long abandoned subway tunnel. It was the ominous quiet of a standing train, an empty parking lot on the edge of town. But mostly it was an earthen path, near silent except for the sounds of rustling autumn leaves and the whir of rolling tires.
Every photo captured through the lens, imprinted on film, sought to hold it, to retain it. Every note scribbled beneath dim light grasped tightly to what just was. But here can’t be had or kept. Here is presence in a place for a moment in time. Once that moment has passed, once you’ve moved from the place, it becomes there, and here takes new form.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sarah Gunawan is currently a graduate student at the University of Waterloo School of Architecture. Her thesis focuses on the ecosystem of the urban environment and the potential for architecture to enable synanthropic human and non-human cohabitation within the city. During a (much-needed) break between completing undergrad and beginning masters, Sarah cycled for eleven days, covering 1100km from New York City to Cambridge, accompanied by her friend, Brock Benninger.
