Pop’s Page

Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize. (I Cor. 9:24)

I had just successfully surmounted “the hill” when I spotted him, about 50 yards down the creek on my left. I was downwind of him, as he hunted for grubs along the upper creek bank, and he faced away from me as I approached noiselessly on my bike. It was one of those rarities in Texas, a “cool” day in June—that is it was only in the eighties even near noon. A “cold front” as they call it had come through, dropping the temperatures out of the usual nineties, and apparently disrupting the sleeping patterns of my friend ahead. Usually armadillos sleep in the day and hunt for grubs at night. But for some reason, here he was, out digging for a very late breakfast.

As I grew closer, still unnoticed, my mind shot back several years to my last serious encounter with one of these armored creatures. It was Fall, and our niece Megan was living with us at the time. The neighborhood was buzzing with the news of a renegade armadillo, unafraid of his human neighbors bordering the creek, as he ravaged the nearby lawns looking for grubs. My neighbor Ron and I had been particularly hard hit, with deep holes gouged in our landscapes by the marauding mischief maker. Ron even reported that another neighbor had put out a live trap, but to no avail. Exercised by this affront to my Biblical authority over the creatures in my domain, I determined to put an end to this maddening maverick that very evening. Sure enough, around 9 p.m., as I peered out my front window I spotted him on the front lawn, grubbing away without care for man nor beast. I stealthily opened the garage doors, and crept out, broom rake in hand, to come around him from behind. He didn’t notice me as I circled behind him—perhaps because it’s said that armadillos are practically blind—and I got to within a few feet before he began to sense that “something’s rotten in Denmark.” It was then as I got a really good look at him, and particularly his slow movements, that I realized how much he reminded of a possum on steroids. Several years earlier, back in New Jersey, a possum had got himself stuck in our garbage can. I was forced to reach a gloved hand into the can and grab him by the tail, haul him out and carry over to the nearby woods. Although he spit and sputtered at me, he offered no real threat, and then casually ambled off at low speed when released. Likewise, as I approached this armadillo, he ambled toward the garage at a pace that was amazingly slow compared to how I would have reacted in his position. Thus encouraged I steered him by threat from the rake and maneuvered him into the garage. Again, just like a possum he retreated under my workbench, promptly formed himself into an armored ball, in which state he seemed to be using the philosophy “if I can’t see him he must not see me.” Thus having cornered him, I was able to take my shovel and rake, lift him off the floor from under the workbench, and gently flipped him into the open and empty ice cooler near by. I shut the lid and called out to Megan, who with dropped jaw, had been watching this trapping process from a safe distance. “Help me put this in the minivan,” I shouted. After a brief hesitation, she responded, and soon we were off to Breckinridge Park with me driving and Megan sitting on the ice chest to keep our vanquished foe from escaping. After the 10 minutes or so that it took to get to the park, Megan was sure that the armadillo was no longer playing possum, but was in fact dead from suffocation. But when we opened the chest, our friend strolled out and we observed his now familiar amble towards the creek with no apparent harm to him or us. That was the last we saw of him, until today……

As I grew closer, taking care to move the pedals as silently as I could, a flash of recognition came over me. Was this the same animal that I had released several years before? Do armadillos even live that long? (By the looks of road kill along Renner it appears that their mortality has been increased substantially by the arrival of automobiles in their neighborhood.) Certainly, this one, like the earlier one, seemed to give no concern to my arrival until I got right next to him. And then there we were. He, with the creek on one side and me on the other, had only two choices: go upstream the way I’d come, or downstream, the way I was heading. He was linearly constrained as they say in topology class. He looked at me and I looked back at him to see which choice he would make.

Downstream! He was off in a flash. In fact he surprised me with his sudden burst of speed. My previous brief history with his breed led me to believe a fast walk was his top velocity. This one was sprinting! When I recovered from my shock I hit the pedals hard to keep up. Fortunately, the creek hemmed him in, and in a few seconds I caught up to him as he kept tracking along the bank. And so we raced, he on my left with his legs moving back and forth like little egg beaters, and I on his right pedaling for all I was worth on the rough terrain and tall grass of the adjoining meadow. For several seconds we were neck-and-neck, or should I say nose-and-wheel. Then he stopped. Suddenly. I jammed on the brakes, almost doing an “endo” in the process. I stared at him. He stared back at me. Then I noticed the hole. His tail was right over it, and he seemed to be making to back down into it. Why spoil the fun, I thought. We had tied the first heat. Let’s do another.

“Wanna race some more,” I hollered at him, assuming he spoke Texan in these parts. That seemed to be enough to spur him on, and we were off again. As before we remained in a dead heat until just ahead I noticed a topographic feature that was clearly in his favor. Would he notice it also? It was a point along the creek at which the meadow dropped away to the right in favor of a grove of fair size oaks and sycamores along with accompanying underbrush. There was no way I could ride through that! Sure enough, he did notice and headed right for it. The race was over. He had won. I had lost. Shucks!

Had I been better prepared for this encounter with the armadillo, I would have brought along my video camera and filmed the race. Then I could have spent many hours analyzing the videotape and determining why I lost. Should I have zigged when I zagged? Should I have attempted to cut him off prior to the grove of trees (except that would have been cheating)? How can I improve my technique so I will do better the next time I meet my friend along the creek bank? But of course this is silliness. The chances of coming across him again are one in a million, unless I decide to don night vision goggles and join him in the nocturnal hours.

The Apostle Paul, in describing our spiritual journey, likens it to a race. Only one racer gets a prize, he says, and then goes on to make the following declaration:

Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last; but we do it to get a crown that will last forever. Therefore I do not run like a man running aimlessly; I do not fight like a man beating the air. No, I beat my body and make it my slave so that after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified for the prize.

I wish I could draw some profound lesson from my race with the armadillo that would somehow bear on Paul’s words above. But I can’t. It was a “chance” encounter with one of God’s creatures on a fine summer day, making a somewhat routine bike ride more enjoyable. For you see, my bike rides are solitary events. I don’t normally race with anyone. It’s just me, and the path, and the trees and the creeks and an occasional endo or two. It’s my version of the “strict training” because I want to avoid any more coronary problems. Not having a heart attack, or another angioplasty, is the “crown” of my biking achievement. But some day, that crown will too pass away. The true crown is the one that will last forever, like Paul says. It comes, not because of anything I have done, but because of the One that has gone before: Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross and sat down at the right hand of the Father. He won the one race that is important.