Beneath the revival tent, the wheelievers shouted a knee-bent amen as we preached the gospel no curb can refuse: angle, timing, humility. Not magic, mechanics with manners. We rebuked the straight-on smash (a sermon on regret) and laid hands on inputs so gentle the footpad finally believed us. Pushback arrived like a white-gloved deacon, firm palm, kind voice,reminding the faithful that salvation at 17 mph is better than confession at 19. We closed with the Curb-Crossing Creed, “enter slower than pride wants, exit faster than fear expects” and sent the congregation forth to convert obstacles, one diagonal at a time. A-wheel-men.

On the seventh mile, the wheelievers finally unclenched. Pushback wasn’t wrath, it was the patient usher at the sanctuary door: palm out, “Not there, child.” The leaves smelled like cinnamon pie and rode like hotel soap, the Strava Pharisee hissed “Sprint for glory!” and the low-battery prophet shouted “Prepare ye the charger!” We answered with the Seventh-Mile Commandments: soften knees before skulls, honor thy PSI and temperature, and coast without coveting thy neighbor’s titanium collarbone. Regen tithed power back to the pack, and for one holy stretch we had nothing to prove, just a gentle carve and a whispered, “Blessed be the patch notes.”

On the Fall Equinox, when daylight and darkness split the ride 50/50, the wheelievers gather to recentre feet, PSI, and pride. “Magnetic pushback” becomes the firmware of grace, damp leaves reveal themselves as cinnamon-scented traps, and a humble speed bump doubles as an altar. Low battery speaks like a prophet (“Prepare ye the charging cable”), while the Autumn Commandments remind us to honor chargers, heed the cold, and carve with humility. This satirical homily blesses bearings, patches egos, and sends wheelievers forth in peace.