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.

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.