Mother’s Day: Honor Thy Maker and Thy Tire-Pressure Checker
Opening Scripture
From The Book of Bearings, Chapter 31, Verses 1–10
And the rider went forth with confidence, though his tire was soft and his judgment softer.
And his mother called unto him, saying, “Did you check your PSI?”
But the rider hardened his heart and replied, “I know what I’m doing.”
Then did the Wheel wobble beneath him, and the carve became mushy in the land.
And the rider said, “Surely something is wrong with the firmware.”
But the mother lifted one eyebrow, and all excuses perished before her.
For the Maker giveth the Wheel, but the tire-pressure checker preserveth the rider.
Blessed is he who honoreth both creation and maintenance.
Blessed is she who asks annoying safety questions before they become medical questions.
For many sons have been saved by a mother’s suspicion of underinflated tires.
I. The Sacred Annoyance of Being Reminded
Wheelievers, today we gather for Mother’s Day, that holy observance when every rider must pause, look upon the woman who kept him alive through bicycles, skateboards, trampolines, questionable ramps, and the era when he thought heelies were transportation, and say: “You were right about most of it.”
Not all of it. Let us remain honest. But most of it.
For mothers have always possessed a mystical relationship with danger. They can detect a loose shoelace from across a parking lot. They can sense a missing helmet through drywall. They can hear a child say “Watch this” and immediately begin calculating insurance deductibles.
And now, in the age of the Wheel, they have added new concerns unto the old scroll: battery percentage, wrist guards, headlamp brightness, road rash, wet leaves, group rides after dark, and whether that board “seems stable enough for a grown man with responsibilities.”
The rider hears these questions and calls them nagging.
But the wise call them prophecy.
For many a nosedive hath begun with the words, “I’m just going around the block.” Many a long walk home hath begun with, “I’ve got plenty of battery.” Many a wobbly ride hath begun with, “The tire feels fine.” And many a mother, without opening the app, checking the PSI, or understanding a single setting, hath looked upon the rider and said, “Something about this seems like a bad idea.”
And lo, she was correct.
II. Honor Thy Maker, But Also the Person Who Owneth the Gauge
Now, wheelievers, we speak often of the Maker. The great source of the Wheel. The mysterious provider of axle, motor, footpad, sensor, tire, battery, firmware, pushback, and the deeply humbling feeling of realizing a board has more emotional discipline than thou.
But today we honor not only the Maker.
We honor the tire-pressure checker.
Every congregation hath one. Perhaps it is thy mother. Perhaps it is thy spouse. Perhaps it is a friend who shows up to the group ride with a digital gauge, a portable pump, and the calm disappointment of a park ranger. Whoever they are, they are doing sacred work.
Because PSI is not glamorous. No influencer gets famous by kneeling in a garage and saying, “Today we’re going to verify safe tire pressure before making decisions.” There is no dramatic montage for proper inflation. No slow-motion drone shot of a man responsibly checking his sidewall.
But the Wheel knows.
The tire knows.
The pavement knows.
And thy mother definitely knows when thou art trying to leave the house without checking something important.
Blessed are the mothers who ask, “Do you have your helmet?” even when the answer is obvious and located in the rider’s hand. Blessed are the guardians of common sense, for they shall interrupt many foolish departures. Blessed are those who say, “Text me when you get there,” for they understand that range anxiety is not merely technical, but maternal.
III. The Parable of Brother Kyle and the Soft Tire of Denial
Hear now the parable of Brother Kyle, who was beloved among the wheelievers because he had enthusiasm, new pads, and the confidence of a man who considered “probably fine” to be a maintenance philosophy.
On Mother’s Day morning, Brother Kyle prepared to ride unto brunch. He wore his helmet. He had charged his board. He had selected a shirt that said, without words, “I am outdoorsy but available for pancakes.”
His mother looked upon him and said, “Did you check the tire?”
Kyle replied, “It’s good.”
She said, “Did you check it, or is it good?”
And there fell a silence over the driveway.
For there is no theological defense against that question.
Kyle, wishing to avoid further maternal cross-examination, pressed the tire once with his thumb and declared, “Feels fine.” This was not a measurement. This was a gesture of escape.
So he rolled forth.
At first, all seemed well. The birds sang. The battery was strong. The app was open. The neighborhood was filled with festive families, floral arrangements, and people driving minivans with the righteous urgency of those late to reservations.
But soon Kyle noticed that his carve felt sluggish. His board handled like a couch with ambition. The tire rolled heavy beneath him. Every turn felt like pushing through oatmeal. Still, he continued, because admitting one’s mother was right before reaching brunch is a difficult thing for a grown man.
Then came a mild incline.
Not a hill. Not a mountain. Merely a small suburban rise, the kind a golden retriever could judge silently from a lawn.
The Wheel labored. The battery sagged. The pushback whispered, “Perhaps today is not the day.” Kyle leaned harder, because fools often interpret resistance as a request for commitment.
At the top of the rise, he stepped off awkwardly, not injured, but emotionally altered. He checked the tire at last with the tiny gauge his mother had placed in his backpack without telling him.
And behold: the PSI was shameful.
When he arrived late to brunch, his mother said nothing. She merely looked at him with the ancient face of one who had seen the truth before the ride began.
And Kyle said, “You were right.”
And the heavens opened.
Not dramatically. Just enough for everyone at the table to hear.
IV. The Footpad Knoweth, and So Doth Thy Mother
Let us now consider the footpad sensor.
The sensor is holy because it detecteth presence. It knoweth when the rider is centered. It knoweth when the heel is wandering. It knoweth when the stance is humble and when the mount is a performance for strangers.
But a mother’s sensor is greater still.
She detecteth tone. She detecteth overconfidence. She detecteth the difference between “I’ll be careful” and “I have already decided not to be careful but would like this conversation to end.” She detecteth when the rider is going too fast in a video filmed by someone who says “You’re good, you’re good,” right before the rider is not good.
The footpad senses pressure.
A mother senses destiny.
And though some among you may resist this teaching, remember that mothers were practicing predictive safety analytics long before the app started drawing neat little ride maps. A mother can see a man in wrist guards near a wet driveway and immediately know the plot.
Leader: Who remindeth the rider before the ride?
Wheelievers: THE MOTHER REMINDETH THE RIDER.
Leader: Who checketh the PSI when pride forgetteth?
Wheelievers: THE RIGHTEOUS TIRE-PRESSURE CHECKER.
Leader: And what shall we say when she asks if we are being safe?
Wheelievers: THANK YOU, AND YES, I WILL CHECK AGAIN.
Amen. Some of you needed that more than others.
V. The Weekly Rite of Maternal Maintenance
Therefore I give unto you this week’s sacred practice: The Rite of Maternal Maintenance.
Before thy next ride, do not begin with the app. Do not begin with top speed goals. Do not begin by sending “quick ride?” to the group chat, for quick rides are often long rides wearing a fake mustache.
Begin with maintenance.
First, check thy PSI with an actual gauge, not with the thumb of delusion.
Second, inspect thy tire for wear, thy grip tape for filth, thy footpad for debris, and thy charger situation for avoidable sadness.
Third, confirm thy battery level and ask whether thy planned route matches reality, not optimism.
Fourth, put on thy helmet before anyone has to say the sentence that hath echoed through generations: “You’re not going out like that.”
Then, in honor of Mother’s Day, speak aloud one phrase that may heal centuries of preventable nonsense:
“Thank you for reminding me.”
This may feel strange. This may feel vulnerable. This may cause older riders to look away in discomfort. But say it anyway.
For gratitude is easier than road rash, and cheaper than urgent care.
VI. A Warning to Sons, Daughters, and All Who Think They Are Different
Now I must speak directly to the grown riders.
Yes, you have a job. Yes, you pay bills. Yes, you understand tire pressure intellectually. Yes, you have watched repair videos. Yes, you once diagnosed a sensor issue correctly in a comments section and have never been the same since.
But none of this exempts you from basic reminders.
The most dangerous phrase in all of riding is not “one more mile.” It is not “I can make that hill.” It is not even “the firmware feels weird.”
It is: “I know.”
“I know” hath destroyed more teachability than speed ever could. “I know” is what a rider says when the truth is approaching but he would prefer not to receive it. “I know” is a locked door on the house of wisdom.
So when thy mother, spouse, friend, child, neighbor, or mechanically suspicious dog seemeth concerned, do not despise the interruption. Receive it. Consider it. Check the thing. You may still ride. You may still carve. You may still enjoy the open path and the sweet hum of the motor beneath thee.
But thou shalt do so with slightly less foolishness.
And that is how traditions survive.
VII. Mother’s Day Benediction for the Well-Inflated
So today, honor thy maker.
Honor the one who built the Wheel, yes. Honor the engineers, the sensors, the battery, the self-leveling, the strange little miracles of firmware and torque. Honor the board that carrieth thee through suburbs, trails, bike lanes, and spiritual crises disguised as errands.
But also honor the one who asks annoying questions before the ride.
Honor the mother who said, “Wear a helmet,” before thou knew helmets could become personality accessories. Honor the mother who said, “Be careful,” though thou translated it as background noise. Honor the mother who packed bandages, water, snacks, sunscreen, and a level of concern that seemed excessive until life began proving her point.
Honor the tire-pressure checker.
Honor the safety asker.
Honor the sacred interrupter.
For the Wheel may carry thee, but someone had to keep thee alive long enough to become this ridiculous.
Closing Words
From The Gospel of Grip Tape, Chapter 13, Verses 18–23
Go forth, wheelievers, with gratitude in thy heart and proper PSI beneath thee.
Let not pride reject the question, “Did you check it?”
For the maker createth, but the maintainer preserveth.
Blessed is the rider who honoreth correction before correction becometh collision.
Blessed is the mother whose warnings outlive the eye-rolls of her children.
And may thy tire be true, thy battery sufficient, thy sensor satisfied, and thy mother’s group text merciful.
