In “Pedaling Between Worlds,” Aniyah Couchman ’29 compares her experiences as an international student to learning to ride a bicycle at Stanford. Couchman, through her day-to-day rides around campus, hopes to appreciate the cultural differences between Guyana and Stanford.

I didn’t expect that learning to ride a bike again would feel so much like learning to live.

When I first arrived at Stanford, the few bikes on the road, all going at their own pace, reminded me of home: a small country with a small population full of people who impacted my life in different ways. 

Back home in Guyana, cycling was a different story. I lived near the capital city, and I didn’t see bicycles too often. But every bicycle had baskets filled with fruits, bags, books — pretty much any item you could think of. The few bicycles I saw told a distinct story about their rider’s life. 

At Stanford, though, riding seemed to mean something else. It was part of the rhythm of campus life, a symbol of balance, speed and self-direction. The roads became streaked with bikes of all kinds — electric, high seats, low seats, baskets and bells — and their fluid motion was as awe-striking as it was intimidating. 

I had a bicycle in Guyana that I didn’t ride that much, but when I got to Stanford, gripping the handles of my new bicycle and practicing circles with my dad and brother in the sloping parking lot felt like learning to walk again. Except here, I’d have to learn to walk in a crowd, and any misstep would send others toppling too. 

The good thing is that being an international student at Stanford feels like having invisible training wheels. International student orientation (ISO) leaders and very involved resident assistants (RAs) hover around you, steadying your fall before you even lose balance. In many ways, this sense of comfort stopped my endless wobbling. I had people explain which dining hall I’d find ice cream in, remind me to keep my bike light nearby and explain the countless Stanford acronyms (is Memorial Church actually called MemChu?). But there’s also an unspoken restlessness beneath the help. You want to feel the thrill of your own motion, the satisfaction of saying: I can do this without holding on.

At first, I clung to every hand extended. I memorized campus maps and double-checked every assignment. But I quickly found out I couldn’t learn everything at once. I was riding back from my first class and automatically thought to turn my bike to the left side of the road to get back to my dorm. In the split second that I was about to make my turn, I noticed strange looks from pedestrians and drivers. It was as if they could tell from experience where some international students tend to mistakenly ride. Then I saw the arrow on the lane that told me I was about to go in the wrong direction. I wasn’t in Guyana anymore. And that lesson told me that I’d have to ride on the right side from now on. 

I realized then that maybe the training wheels aren’t the problem. Maybe they’re part of the process, the stage between being guided and being free. Every wobble teaches something: how to shift your weight, stay in the right lane and look out for pedestrians, fellow road users, stop signs and squirrels — all at once.

Academically, too, I was finding my balance. In Guyana, I had excelled through structure: clear syllabi, consistent expectations, familiar systems. Here, knowledge felt like an open road. Liberal education was a vast and exhilarating concept. In my first week I was pedaling between IntroSems, required classes, COLLEGE and PWR while wondering if 19 units would be fine for frosh fall. It was like a ride to West Campus — uphill. 

So, I started treating each class like a ride too, balancing it all by adjusting my pace, feeling the friction, and learning when to pedal harder and when to coast. It’s only Week 4, so I haven’t quite mastered it yet. Some evenings, after studying, I take my bike out again and walk it around campus. For me, life is as much a walk as it is a ride. At night, the campus hums with quiet energy, a different kind of sound from Guyana’s busy roads and familiar tunes but music all the same. I would reminisce about my old schedule playing chess in the evenings with my brother and sister and eating the tastiest dinner with my family, my favorites being Guyanese-style chicken chow mein or my mom’s chicken curry. After a walk down memory lane, I’d pedal back through my usual route to my dorm, thinking about all the homework I needed to get done while making as many friends as I could. Doing this made me realize something:  maybe balance isn’t about getting rid of what steadies you but learning when to lean on it. 

Each ride gets easier. Each day, a little steadier. And as I pedal between these two worlds — one foot in memory, the other in motion — I appreciate the value of my training wheels. Everyone and everything in Guyana has gotten me this far, and everyone and everything at Stanford will keep me going. Riding a bicycle along the road of life is the act of moving, falling and rising again — always forward, always learning to ride.