Memorial Ride: Remembering the Fallen Ankles and Bruised Egos
Opening Scripture
From The Book of Bearings, Chapter 40, Verses 1–11
And the wheelievers gathered at the trailhead, each bearing witness with scratches upon helmet, scuffs upon fender, and stories that had grown 18% more dramatic with time.
And they said, “Let us remember those who fell.”
Not unto death, necessarily, but unto gravel, shrubbery, decorative bark, and the unforgiving corner of a driveway lip.
For many ankles have turned, many wrists have questioned their purpose, and many egos have been bruised in the presence of strangers.
Blessed are those who wear pads before they become testimonies.
Blessed are those who learn from another rider’s wobble, for they shall inherit fewer urgent care receipts.
Woe unto him who mocketh the fallen, for the pavement keepeth receipts.
Woe unto him who saith, “That would never happen to me,” for those are the words by which the asphalt is summoned.
Remember the fallen ankles, honor the bruised egos, and lower thy speed when wisdom whispereth.
For every scar hath a sermon, and every limp hath a footnote.
Let the Memorial Ride begin with humility and end near ice packs.
I. We Gather Not to Mourn, But to Admit Things Happened
Wheelievers, today we gather for the Memorial Ride, that sacred observance when we remember the fallen: the ankle-twisted, the pride-wounded, the gravel-kissed, the hedge-received, the driveway-humbled, and the many who arose saying, “I’m good,” when history, witnesses, and body language all suggested further review.
This is not a day of despair.
This is a day of remembrance.
For every wheeliever carries a private archive of mistakes. A little stumble near the mailbox. A surprise dismount outside the coffee shop. A slow-speed tip-over so embarrassing that speed itself asked not to be associated with it. These are not failures alone. They are teachings delivered through awkward physics.
The world says, “Move on.” But the Wheel says, “Remember exactly where that happened.”
For memory is safety with better storytelling.
Many of you can ride through your neighborhood and point to sacred locations. “There is where Brother Dylan learned about wet leaves.” “There is where Sister Maya discovered battery sag.” “There is where I personally became aware of loose gravel as a theological force.” These places are not shameful. They are landmarks.
And if Apple Maps had courage, it would label them accordingly.
II. The Fallen Ankles of the Faithful
Let us speak first of ankles.
The ankle is a small hinge with enormous spiritual responsibility. It standeth between the rider and the hospital portal. It absorbs the wobble, negotiates the carve, correcteth the stance, and sends urgent messages upward that the brain often ignores because the brain is busy thinking, “This probably looks cool.”
Many ankles have served faithfully.
Many ankles have warned the rider early.
Many ankles have said, “Brother, this line is questionable,” only to be overruled by a torso drunk on confidence and a head full of YouTube advice.
And when disaster cometh, who is blamed? The board. The firmware. The PSI. The trail. The squirrel. The weird little bump that “came out of nowhere,” despite having existed in the same place since 2007.
Rarely doth the rider say, “My ankle tried to tell me, and I rejected its ministry.”
So today we honor the fallen ankles. The rolled ones. The tweaked ones. The tender ones wrapped in drugstore compression sleeves while their owners tell coworkers, “Yeah, just a minor riding thing.” The ankles that paid the tax on a man’s desire to carve harder in front of no one.
Blessed are the flexible ankles, for they shall endure the foolishness of the upper body. Blessed are those who strengthen their stabilizers, for they shall not be undone by a pebble with ambition.
III. The Bruised Ego, Which Healeth Slowest
Now we turn to the ego, that fragile passenger who insists on driving.
The body heals in stages. Road rash scabs. Ankles recover. Knees forgive, eventually. But the ego lingereth in the garage, replaying the incident from multiple angles, asking whether the dog walker saw, whether the neighbor’s camera recorded, whether the child on the scooter laughed because children are honest and therefore dangerous.
A bruised ego is a serious injury.
It causeth a rider to over-explain.
He says, “The board did this weird thing.”
He says, “I think my tire pressure was affecting my line.”
He says, “The sensor wasn’t reading clean.”
He says, “The firmware has felt different lately.”
He says all these things while secretly knowing that he simply tried to look too smooth near a public bench.
Wheelievers, the ego must be treated with truth.
Not cruelty. Truth.
If thou fell because the board failed, investigate. If thou fell because the surface was dangerous, learn. If thou fell because you were acting like a sponsored athlete in cargo shorts on a Tuesday, confess and be made whole.
There is freedom in saying, “I got cocky.”
There is healing in saying, “I ignored pushback.”
There is power in saying, “I should not have attempted that curb with iced coffee in my hand.”
The ego hates confession because confession ends the press conference.
But the wise rider lets the press conference end.
IV. The Parable of Brother Owen and the Memorial Cone
Hear now the parable of Brother Owen, who was beloved among the wheelievers because he owned a portable pump, gave reasonable advice, and then personally ignored it whenever the road became fun.
Now Brother Owen had a certain corner in his neighborhood. A gentle downhill turn. A smooth entry. A clean exit. A place where he often said, “This is the best carve on the whole route.”
And it was good.
Until it was not.
One morning, Owen approached the sacred corner with confidence. The sun was bright. His battery was strong. His grip tape was clean. His stance was almost righteous. But near the apex of the turn lay a small scatter of gravel, placed there by forces unknown but clearly interested in character development.
Owen saw the gravel late.
His ankle began negotiations.
His board adjusted.
His ego submitted no paperwork.
Then came the slide, the stumble, the rapid footwork of a man briefly attempting to invent a new sport. He did not fully fall. This made it worse. Instead he performed seven desperate little steps beside the board while making the exact face of someone trying to convince gravity that both parties could walk away.
A jogger saw everything.
When the wheelievers later asked what happened, Owen said, “I saved it.”
And the elders replied, “We honor thy recovery, but not thy interpretation.”
For the place became known thereafter as Owen’s Corner of Nearly.
Each Memorial Ride, the congregation passed it slowly. Some nodded. Some placed a small orange cone nearby in remembrance. Owen pretended not to care, which is how everyone knew he cared deeply.
Thus learn we: not every fall requires impact. Sometimes the ego alone hitteth the ground.
V. Call and Response for the Scuffed and Still Riding
Leader: Whom do we remember today?
Wheelievers: THE FALLEN ANKLES AND THE BRUISED EGOS.
Leader: What did they teach us?
Wheelievers: THAT GRAVEL IS NEVER JUST GRAVEL.
Leader: What shall we honor?
Wheelievers: PADS, PUSHBACK, PSI, AND PROPER STANCE.
Leader: What shall we not say after every mistake?
Wheelievers: “IT WAS PROBABLY FIRMWARE.”
Leader: And what shall we do when another rider falls?
Wheelievers: CHECK ON THEM FIRST, LAUGH LATER IF THEY ALSO LAUGH.
Amen. That last part is important, and some of you need to write it upon thy heart.
VI. The Weekly Rite of the Memorial Roll
Therefore I give unto you this week’s sacred practice: The Rite of the Memorial Roll.
Before thy next ride, choose one place where thou hast previously been humbled. A curb. A hill. A driveway seam. A suspicious patch of leaves. A place where thy confidence separated from thy ability and filed for independence.
Ride to that place slowly.
Do not charge it. Do not “reclaim it” with unnecessary drama. Do not bring a camera unless thou hast first brought wisdom. Simply approach the place and pause.
Then speak aloud, or quietly if neighbors are present:
“Here I learned.”
“Here I blamed the wrong thing.”
“Here my ankle became a teacher.”
“Here my ego received continuing education.”
After this, roll past with humble speed, soft knees, and a centered stance. Let the footpad sensor detect thee clearly. Let the gyro guide thee quietly. Let the battery level remind thee that memory is not the same as invincibility.
And if thou art riding with others, invite them to share one place where they too were humbled. This is how fellowship deepens: not through perfect ride stats, but through honest stories of avoidable weirdness.
At the end of the ride, inspect thy board. Check thy tire pressure. Charge thy battery. Clean thy grip tape. And if thy ankle feels suspicious, ice it before it becomes a doctrine.
VII. A Warning Against Mocking the Fallen
Now I must warn the congregation against a grievous sin: mocking the fallen too quickly.
Yes, some falls are funny.
Let us not lie in church.
There are dismounts so theatrical they seem choreographed by a committee. There are slow-speed tip-overs with the emotional weight of Shakespeare. There are moments when a rider steps off into a bush so gently that the bush appears to accept him as family.
But compassion cometh first.
The sacred order is this:
First, ask, “Are you okay?”
Second, confirm that all bones remain in their assigned districts.
Third, recover the board.
Fourth, allow the rider to regain enough dignity to participate in the joke.
Fifth, and only then, may the congregation begin careful laughter.
For the same pavement waiteth for all.
The rider who mocks today may limp tomorrow. The one who says, “How did that even happen?” shall soon discover twelve possible answers. The one who watches another fall and feels superior hath already begun leaning too far forward in spirit.
Honor the fallen. Help them rise. Save the jokes for after the helmet comes off and the rider says, “Okay, that was kind of funny.”
This is the law and the group ride etiquette.
VIII. Remembering Without Fear
Finally, wheelievers, remember this: the Memorial Ride is not meant to make us afraid.
Fear is not the goal.
Wisdom is the goal.
We remember the fallen ankles not so that we stop riding, but so that we ride better. We remember the bruised egos not so that we become timid, but so that we become honest. We remember every nosedive, wobble, sensor fail, surprise dismount, battery sag shuffle, and failed curb attempt because each one addeth a brick to the temple of discernment.
The Wheel does not ask for perfection.
It asks for attention.
It asks that we stop treating warnings like suggestions from a nervous intern. It asks that we honor pushback, respect terrain, check PSI, charge fully, listen to chirps, and stop saying “I know” with the confidence of a man currently proving otherwise.
And when we do fall, may we rise with humility.
May we tell the truth.
May we become funnier and safer at the same time.
Closing Words
From The Gospel of Grip Tape, Chapter 20, Verses 6–12
Remember the fallen, for they are thy teachers in pads and regret.
Honor the ankle, that small servant of balance and last-minute correction.
Comfort the bruised ego, but do not let it rewrite the accident report.
Let every scuff become wisdom, every wobble become instruction, and every limp become a reason to stretch.
Blessed is the wheeliever who learneth before repeating.
Blessed is the rider who helpeth another rise.
And may thy Memorial Ride end with laughter, humility, and no new names added to the list.
