Wheelievers, today we open The Book of Bearings and confront the sacred truth every rider eventually hears echoing through a quiet parking lot: that sound is not normal. This sermon is a call to grease over denial, to maintenance over excuses, and to the redemptive silence that comes when grinding is cast out at last. Learn why neglect is noisy, why grace comes in a tube, and why the truly faithful glide past without turning heads.

Wheelievers, the Flood of Firmware has risen, and the faithful are called not to ride—but to wait. When the progress bar crawls like a river of trials and the tablet declares Do Not Power Off, patience becomes the holiest virtue. Learn why the Round tests us with updates, why panic leads only to walking, and how quiet obedience preserves both board and dignity.

Wheelievers, gather close and warm your shins by the glow of the headlamp, today we preach Genesis of the Round, the moment the Wheel rolled into being and separated the faithful from the foot-bound. Learn the first holy laws, respect pushback, know thy PSI, and keep thy stance steady, lest pride deliver thee unto the sacred nosedive. Hear the Parable of the Speed Bump, recite the call-and-response of survival, and practice the Sacred Pre-Ride Ritual so your miles may be multiplied in peace.

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.