On the longest night of the year, a wheeliever follows a halo-bright light ring through a snowy nativity of pines, lantern in hand, board light leading like a star. A 90s church-poster fever dream for Wheelmas: ride by light, not vibes; peace on paths, goodwill to knees.

The Gift of Glide isn’t something you own—it’s something you receive with soft knees and honest inputs. Two days after unboxing, wheelievers learn the quiet liturgy: season your PSI, tell the footpad the whole truth (heel and toe), and accept pushback as the gentle usher that keeps you out of confession with asphalt. Tithe your downhills with regen, share the power strip at 80% (“I am abundant”), and carve for cartilage—not cameras. Receive the sacred ride, glide in peace, and leave only improved decisions behind.The Gift of Glide isn’t something you own, it’s something you receive with soft knees and honest inputs. Two days after unboxing, wheelievers learn the quiet liturgy: season your PSI, tell the footpad the whole truth (heel and toe), and accept pushback as the gentle usher that keeps you out of confession with asphalt. Tithe your downhills with regen, share the power strip at 80% (“I am abundant”), and carve for cartilage, not cameras. Receive the sacred ride, glide in peace, and leave only improved decisions behind.

When daylight clocks out, the path starts asking harder questions. Riders in the Night is a calm, funny field guide for wheelievers: set seasonally honest PSI, run two witnesses (headlamp + board light), aim your beam like a decent neighbor, and let pushback—the white-gloved deacon—keep you out of memoirs. Remember the Night Commandments: enter slower than pride wants, tell the footpad the truth (heel and toe), and assume shine means moisture. Share the strip, feather the downhill, get home on purpose. Can we ride with patience in the turns and courage on the straights? Yes, we glide.

When the LED turned from hopeful green to judgmental amber, the wheelievers felt the sacred tug: take up thy cord and walk. Thus began the Pilgrimage to the Charging Station, past the Bench of Denial (“one more lap”), through the Leaf Gauntlet (smells like pie, rides like soap), and onward to the locked patio outlet where faith goes to learn boundaries. At the shrine we kept the Canon of the Plug, first fruits to the desperate, step aside at 80%, coil thy cord as if another soul exists. We rejected false doctrines (sunbathing does not “soak electrons”) and praised true miracles (+2% downhill regen, the café barista who says “sure”). Go in peace, and may your pushback be pastoral and your outlet unoccupied. A-Wheel-men.

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.