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.

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.