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.