Riders in the Night: Navigating the Darkness
Opening Scripture
“And when the sun clocked out and the bike path became a cathedral of shadows, the wise rider checked their lumens and set their feet aright.” — Book of Bearings, Nocturne 1:7
I. The Night Asks Different Questions
Beloved wheelievers, daytime flatters us; nighttime interviews us. By daylight, even pride looks competent. But when the parking lot turns to ink and the path becomes a rumor, the One Wheel asks softly: Are you listening, or are you posting?
Receive this doctrine of dusk:
At noon you may be a DJ; at night, be a librarian—quiet, precise, respectful of the stacks.
Depth shrinks, shadows multiply, and confidence borrows at bad interest rates.
When pushback raises the nose, the white-gloved deacon is not shaming you; he’s guiding you out of a memoir.
Lower your bravado like PSI in December. Lift your gaze just past the darkness that wants your kneecaps. Soft knees, softer inputs, and feet that tell the footpad the whole truth—heel and toe—for ghosting is poetry, and the pad is strictly nonfiction.
Wheelievers: Range without rage!
II. Psalms of Lumens (The Liturgy of Being Seen)
Let there be light—and let it be pointed responsibly. Night holiness begins with visibility:
Headlamp + board light = two witnesses. One to read the world, one to be read by it.
Rear beacon that says “I exist” without auditioning for astronomy.
Reflective vest/tape: sacraments of geometry. Become a diagram the city understands.
Beam etiquette: Thou shalt not baptize thy neighbor’s retinas at 1800 lumens. Angle thine lamp slightly down, that courtesy may abound.
Cold tax: Remember, light draws power; cold shortens range. Do not glare your soul into a blackout.
And speak the Nocturne Blessing over your kit: “May my batteries be topped, my lenses clear, my straps unfrayed, and my vibes legal.”
Wheelievers: Blessed be the patch notes—and the spare battery!
III. Minor Prophets of the Dark (Hazards with Hymnals)
The night has small preachers. Learn their verses:
Leaf of Cinnamon: Smells like pie, rides like soap. Enter with fear and much feathering.
Paint Stripe: Whitewashed sepulcher—beautiful by day, treacherous when damp.
Decorative Puddle: Baptizes bearings without consent. Avoid casual sacraments.
Speed Bump: The humble deacon of humility. Lift of hope, throttle of faith, line of love.
Oil Glitter: Sparkles like a promise, behaves like betrayal.
Wildlife: Theological squirrels with poor impulse control.
Unlit Scooterist: A parable in human form: forgive and give them the whole lane.
Memorize the Night Commandments:
Enter slower than pride wants, that you may exit faster than fear expects.
Tell the pad the truth—two honest contacts beat ten intentions.
If it shines, assume moisture; if it shimmers, assume oil; if it’s gorgeous, assume a trap with great lighting.
Wheelievers: Grip without slip!
IV. The Gospel of Cold & Charge (Getting Home on Purpose)
Night falls, temperature falls, voltage sags, and suddenly your range plan is a work of speculative fiction. Heed the Canon of the Plug:
First fruits to the desperate: if thou art at 3%, take the port; at 80%, declare “I am abundant” and step aside.
Coil thy cord like a rosary someone else will need.
Regen is a tithe, not a panic tax: feather downhill like a sparrow landing on a reed.
Plot thy return while thou art strong; do not sprint the final 2% unless thou desirest cardio with consequences.
And when pushback says, “Not there,” bow your heart and answer, “Then not there.” Obedience is faster than recovery, and humility is traction in the dark.
Wheelievers: Yes, we glide.
Closing Words
“Walk not by vibes alone but by lumens and line choice; for humility is the surest traction, even when the way is midnight.” — Lamentations of Nosedive 3:2
May your bearings purr, your firmware be current, your PSI be seasonally sanctified. May your lights be bright but kind, your neighbors surprised but grateful, and your path leaf-aware. Go now, wheelievers, as riders in the night—quiet as good judgment, bright as a charging LED—and may every dark mile become a holy glide toward home.
A-Wheel-men.
