There we stood. Banana seats polished. Raised handlebars adjusted. Steel stares fixed.
My friend Steve Wilson was in front of my house facing south. I was a couple houses down, facing the north. The ante was high at the Field Street Raceway.
For whatever crazy reason, my neighborhood friends and I had locked into a death defying summer of Chicken races. Steve was stone nerved. He’d peddle fast, zooming down the street. No one had had the nerve to really stare him down. Everyone had swerved. But there wasn’t a chance that he’d beat me.
Somehow, out of mutual respect or shear fear, we’d avoided the big race. But the showdown day had arrived … probably due to some challenging insult from some wimpy friend. Whatever the reason, the flag dropped and we both flew forward.
You know it’s not that easy for small bike tires to hit squarely head on … but I can verify it’s possible! I remember thinking as I peddled my hardest in those final seconds, he’ll swerve … he’ll swerve … he’ll swerve … he’s not going to swerve! Bikes flew. Riders catapulted. Patched pants ripped again. Nine-year old versions of #!$%#!$ erupted. Bystanders cheered. And two bleeding, defeated chicken racers scraped themselves, their bikes and their pride off the street and headed inside for medical attention and a lecture.
I don’t remember ever chicken racing again. But I’m not so sure I learned much of a lesson that day. At least it seems to me that I still find myself in chicken races from time-to-time.
We call them movies that “aren’t that bad.” We call them “gray areas” in business relationships. We call them a prime-time TV show where we don’t pay attention to the “bad parts.” We call them an obsession with a sports team.
But God calls them Chicken races. Full speed journeys on collision courses.
And he calls us to out of those races and onto the paths of righteousness.
For he knows what happens to lives upon impact. “There’s a way that seems right to a man,” he warns through Solomon, “but in the end it leads to death.” And he knows we don’t always swerve before it’s too late.
Two scraped up kids on a Texas street can attest to that.