Ghost Rides and Holy Glides

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.