The Possession of the Wheel: A Haunting Testimony
Opening Scripture
“And lo, a rumor arose among the wheelievers that their board could be demon-ridden; but the elders replied, ‘Check thy PSI, and fear not phantoms with Phillips heads.’” — Book of Bearings 0:01
I. Behold, the Overwrought Manifestation
Wheelievers, gather close as I confess a tale so spooky it qualifies as cardio. I set forth for a gentle parking-lot psalm, when suddenly my One Wheel was “possessed.” How did I know? The classic signs:
It leaned left toward a trail I didn’t choose (also where the ground literally sloped).
It sought berms (also where my eyes were staring).
It lusted after rock gardens (also where my thumbs guided the line).
I heard whisperings from the pines: “Enduro… PR… send it…”—the notorious mountain-bike spirit known to haunt anyone who recently watched two trail videos and a tire commercial. “Truly,” I declared, “a demon!” The congregation (my app) replied: 18% battery.
Wheelievers: Deliver us from drama with data!
II. The Diagnostic Scrolls (A.K.A. The Boring Part That Solved It)
The elders unrolled the sacred checklists and, with scandalous calm, asked:
“Child, what is thy PSI in this cold?” (Too proud by 3.)
“Hast thou wiped the leaf soup and oil sheen from thy tread?” (Reader, I had not.)
“Dost thou lay heel and toe in truth upon the footpad?” (I laid poetry; the pad preferred prose.)
“When the pushback deacon lifted the nose, didst thou… continue anyway?” (Shall we move on.)
At this point the demon of possession excused itself, citing scheduling conflicts with reality.
Wheelievers: Blessed be the patch notes and the paper towels!
III. The Rite of Excessive Theatre (Performed on Completely Normal Hardware)
Nevertheless, we proceeded with a full rite—not because demons trembled, but because my ego required a show.
Procession of the Allen Key: I traced a solemn cross of hex upon the deck, whispering: torque-torque-lubricato. Nothing supernatural occurred; several bolts simply became correct.
Aspersion of Holy Isopropyl: I anointed the tire. The “ectoplasm” lifted. A nearby leaf admitted it was wet.
Litany of Knees: “Soften now, O joints!” I obeyed, and—miracle of miracles—stability improved when I stopped riding like a statue.
Obedience to the Usher: Pushback raised the nose; I bowed my soul; the asphalt abstained from laying on of hands.
The mountain-bike spirit sulked off to frighten someone with clipless pedals and unsupervised ambition.
Wheelievers: Grip without slip; faith without flail!
IV. Gospel Truth, Stripped of Jump Scares
Hear the plain doctrine: Faith in the One Wheel does not cancel physics; it cooperates.
If your board “drags you” down trails you never chose, consider the ancient trifecta:
Where you look is where you go. (Eyes up, not at the hazard you’re auditioning.)
What you tell the pad is what it believes. (Two honest contacts beat ten poetic intentions.)
What your pressure is, your contact patch preaches. (Season thy PSI; enlarge thy grace.)
And if a stray mountain-bike spirit mocks your single wheel, bless it and pass by. It craves berms; we crave line choice with knees.
Wheelievers: Range without rage; exits faster than fear expects!
Closing Words
“Rebuke not the imagined demon with incense and hashtags; rebuke the real wobble with stance, pressure, and listening.” — Epistle of Stance 1:1
Go now, wheelievers, laughing at ghosts with torque specs in your pocket. May your bearings purr, your PSI be seasonally sanctified, your sensors certain, and your pushback arrive like a friendly usher with a firm palm. If your Wheel seems possessed, lay hands upon a rag, a gauge, and your pride—and you shall cast out nonsense and glide home in peace.
A-Wheel-men.
