At year’s end, wheelievers file our Annual Report to the Ride: we started with summer-proud PSI and finish with seasonally sanctified pressure; we learned pushback is the white-gloved deacon; we tithed downhills with regen and turned café outlets into diplomacy. We Have Come Full Circle wraps 2025 with Beatitudes of Balance and release notes for 2026 (knees softer, Strava whispers patched, “shiny” defaults to wet). Enter slower than pride wants so you may exit faster than fear expects, and roll into the new year with quiet confidence and shared power strips. A-Wheel-men.

On the longest night of the year, a wheeliever follows a halo-bright light ring through a snowy nativity of pines, lantern in hand, board light leading like a star. A 90s church-poster fever dream for Wheelmas: ride by light, not vibes; peace on paths, goodwill to knees.

The Gift of Glide isn’t something you own—it’s something you receive with soft knees and honest inputs. Two days after unboxing, wheelievers learn the quiet liturgy: season your PSI, tell the footpad the whole truth (heel and toe), and accept pushback as the gentle usher that keeps you out of confession with asphalt. Tithe your downhills with regen, share the power strip at 80% (“I am abundant”), and carve for cartilage—not cameras. Receive the sacred ride, glide in peace, and leave only improved decisions behind.The Gift of Glide isn’t something you own, it’s something you receive with soft knees and honest inputs. Two days after unboxing, wheelievers learn the quiet liturgy: season your PSI, tell the footpad the whole truth (heel and toe), and accept pushback as the gentle usher that keeps you out of confession with asphalt. Tithe your downhills with regen, share the power strip at 80% (“I am abundant”), and carve for cartilage, not cameras. Receive the sacred ride, glide in peace, and leave only improved decisions behind.

When daylight clocks out, the path starts asking harder questions. Riders in the Night is a calm, funny field guide for wheelievers: set seasonally honest PSI, run two witnesses (headlamp + board light), aim your beam like a decent neighbor, and let pushback—the white-gloved deacon—keep you out of memoirs. Remember the Night Commandments: enter slower than pride wants, tell the footpad the truth (heel and toe), and assume shine means moisture. Share the strip, feather the downhill, get home on purpose. Can we ride with patience in the turns and courage on the straights? Yes, we glide.

A winter Advent for Wheelievers: we light the season not with candles but with battery bars—hope glowing one LED at a time. Warm the pack, trim your PSI, schedule firmware at home (with Wi-Fi and snacks), and heed pushback like an angel that says “not today.” Share outlets, untangle cords, glide gently past inflatable reindeer. Let there be light…bars—and enough range to get you home.

A Thanksgiving-week benediction for Wheelievers: the first feast was a group ride—Pilgrims and Native neighbors sharing trails, PSI wisdom, and the last open outlet. Pushback is pastoral care, gratitude is charger etiquette, and torque multiplies like pie. Give thanks, pass the power strip, and glide the cul-de-sac in peace.

When doubt hits like a headwind, don’t freeze like you’re presenting Q4 to hostile analysts—lean in with your hips, not your ego. This sermon baptizes Sandberg’s slogan in traction: micro-tilt saves macro-rides, pushback is pastoral care, and firmware updates belong at home with Wi-Fi and snacks. Wheelievers, center up, breathe, and let the board do the work—so you avoid the Valley of the Shameful Carry.

An altar call for common sense: this sermon anoints the Helmet of Salvation, Gauntlets of Mercy, and Knees of Repentance, then lifts the Shield of PSI against nosedives, pride-bumps, and November leaves. Firmware appears as a wilderness trial, pushback as pastoral care. Armor up, wheeliever—faith without pads is… asphalt.

When the jack-o’-lanterns dim and the wind files its complaint with the trees, we discover we are not alone. The wheelievers ride with a quiet escort—the communion of bearings: grandmothers who believed in sensible sidewalks, uncles fluent in torque, neighbors whose porch lights were policy. They do not cancel physics; they respect it. They whisper Occam to our line choice, Bayes to our autumn assumptions, and nod approvingly when the white-gloved deacon of pushback lifts the nose.

So we calibrate our PSI to the season, tell the footpad the whole truth (heel and toe), tithe our downhills with regen, and make room on the power strip. Can we enter slower than pride wants so we may exit faster than fear expects? Yes, we glide. And in that gentle, shared momentum, ghosts become guides, parking lots become parishes, and the path—leaf-strewn, imperfect—carries us home.

The Wheel caught a mountain-bike spirit and dragged me into singletrack I’d never sworn to—berms licking their lips, rock gardens speaking in Strava tongues, dips and roots lining up to baptize me headfirst. Pushback lifted the nose like a white-gloved deacon and at last I bowed: I lowered my summer-proud PSI, told the footpad the whole truth (heel and toe), softened my knees, and prayed the Wheeliever’s Prayer—“Not by KOMs but by contact patch.” The spirit shrieked, clips unclipped, and fled to haunt someone with 140mm of travel. My board sighed unpossessed, regen glowed +2% like stained glass, and the church lot lights called me home.

Beneath the revival tent, the wheelievers shouted a knee-bent amen as we preached the gospel no curb can refuse: angle, timing, humility. Not magic, mechanics with manners. We rebuked the straight-on smash (a sermon on regret) and laid hands on inputs so gentle the footpad finally believed us. Pushback arrived like a white-gloved deacon, firm palm, kind voice,reminding the faithful that salvation at 17 mph is better than confession at 19. We closed with the Curb-Crossing Creed, “enter slower than pride wants, exit faster than fear expects” and sent the congregation forth to convert obstacles, one diagonal at a time. A-wheel-men.

When the LED turned from hopeful green to judgmental amber, the wheelievers felt the sacred tug: take up thy cord and walk. Thus began the Pilgrimage to the Charging Station, past the Bench of Denial (“one more lap”), through the Leaf Gauntlet (smells like pie, rides like soap), and onward to the locked patio outlet where faith goes to learn boundaries. At the shrine we kept the Canon of the Plug, first fruits to the desperate, step aside at 80%, coil thy cord as if another soul exists. We rejected false doctrines (sunbathing does not “soak electrons”) and praised true miracles (+2% downhill regen, the café barista who says “sure”). Go in peace, and may your pushback be pastoral and your outlet unoccupied. A-Wheel-men.

On this holy day of rubber and reason, wheelievers gather to hear the first commandment of the Ride: traction is truth. Vibes are mist; grip is granite. Leaves arrive like cinnamon-scented liars, pushback appears as a friendly usher with a firm palm, and the Pavement, our oldest deacon, accepts no excuses. We practice the Liturgy of Contact: season your PSI, tell the truth to the footpad sensor, read the surface like scripture, and tithe your descents with gentle regen. Approach the speed bump as sacrament—small lift of hope, small throttle of faith. Lean with intention, brake with mercy, and let your tread be honest; for traction is the quiet truth beneath every miracle. A-Wheel-men.

On the seventh mile, the wheelievers finally unclenched. Pushback wasn’t wrath, it was the patient usher at the sanctuary door: palm out, “Not there, child.” The leaves smelled like cinnamon pie and rode like hotel soap, the Strava Pharisee hissed “Sprint for glory!” and the low-battery prophet shouted “Prepare ye the charger!” We answered with the Seventh-Mile Commandments: soften knees before skulls, honor thy PSI and temperature, and coast without coveting thy neighbor’s titanium collarbone. Regen tithed power back to the pack, and for one holy stretch we had nothing to prove, just a gentle carve and a whispered, “Blessed be the patch notes.”

On the Fall Equinox, when daylight and darkness split the ride 50/50, the wheelievers gather to recentre feet, PSI, and pride. “Magnetic pushback” becomes the firmware of grace, damp leaves reveal themselves as cinnamon-scented traps, and a humble speed bump doubles as an altar. Low battery speaks like a prophet (“Prepare ye the charging cable”), while the Autumn Commandments remind us to honor chargers, heed the cold, and carve with humility. This satirical homily blesses bearings, patches egos, and sends wheelievers forth in peace.

In Yea, Though I Roll Through the Valley of Speed Bumps…, The Church of the One Wheel delivers a high-stakes sermon on balance, faith, and low-clearance salvation. As sacred speed bumps rise like trials on the path to flow, only the soft-kneed and spiritually aligned shall pass unshaken. This is not just a ride—it’s a test of soul suspension.

In Faith Without Footpads Is Dead, The Church of the One Wheel delivers a searing sermon on the folly of raw grip and reckless stances. This holy roast of barefoot bravado warns all riders: without cushioning, there is only carnage. Blistered soles, bruised pride, and unsensed rides await those who forsake the sacred pads. Come feel the pain—and the punchlines.

In Thine Commute Shall Be Effortless and Cool, The Church of the One Wheel delivers a holy promise for the modern age: thou shalt glide past traffic, perspire not, and arrive radiant. This sermon reveals the spiritual superiority of the smooth ride, the sacred rites of pre-commute prep, and the divine smugness of passing walkers with a halo of breeze. Join the faithful. Ditch the bus. Balance is salvation.

From deep within the sanctified axle comes a sermon like no other. In Blessed Be the Bearings That Spin Eternal, The Church of the One Wheel reveals the divine mechanics behind every holy glide. Meet the Seven Sacred Bearings, guardians of balance and prophets of smooth motion, enshrined forever in speed, silence, and stainless steel. Let their sacred spin anoint your soul—and your hub.

Have you ever witnessed the impossible on a dirt path behind a taco truck? In this week’s sermon from The Church of the One Wheel, we share real, righteous testimonies from riders who defied curbs, conquered hills, and survived Baby Yoda-costumed corgis—all by the power of balance and brushless torque. These are the Miracles in Motion. You may laugh. You may cry. You may wobble. But you will believe.