On this holy day of rubber and reason, wheelievers gather to hear the first commandment of the Ride: traction is truth. Vibes are mist; grip is granite. Leaves arrive like cinnamon-scented liars, pushback appears as a friendly usher with a firm palm, and the Pavement, our oldest deacon, accepts no excuses. We practice the Liturgy of Contact: season your PSI, tell the truth to the footpad sensor, read the surface like scripture, and tithe your descents with gentle regen. Approach the speed bump as sacrament—small lift of hope, small throttle of faith. Lean with intention, brake with mercy, and let your tread be honest; for traction is the quiet truth beneath every miracle. 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.”