The Possession of the Wheel: A Haunting Testimony

The Wheel caught a mountain-bike spirit and dragged me into singletrack I’d never sworn to—berms licking their lips, rock gardens speaking in Strava tongues, dips and roots lining up to baptize me headfirst. Pushback lifted the nose like a white-gloved deacon and at last I bowed: I lowered my summer-proud PSI, told the footpad the whole truth (heel and toe), softened my knees, and prayed the Wheeliever’s Prayer—“Not by KOMs but by contact patch.” The spirit shrieked, clips unclipped, and fled to haunt someone with 140mm of travel. My board sighed unpossessed, regen glowed +2% like stained glass, and the church lot lights called me home.