4-10-09

I received the new 166 page APS print catalog for 2009 and as I'm flipping through I come across a picture of Bill Beaver sailing his canoe. Bill is like Colin in that both have a moth and a canoe. Bill has been very successful in the IC, finishing second in the world championship last year in Australia. His mothcapades have resulted from his interest in high performance sailing, certainly demonstrated in a canoe blasting to weather in a breeze.

Just as interesting was another picture, this time of me in Try-Foil (or actually, out of Try-Foil.) Yep, when I took off for the photoboat at Rye last October to get a "hot-dog" shot I guess I pushed the right buttons. Moths certainly have the public eye (or at least the sailor's eye) and it's not surprising that the stock photos used by advertisers start to include more mothing images.



The title of today's post also highlights a excursion that my sister is undertaking with a few of her friends. They're heading to California, leaving today, to retrace a route mapped out in the song "Promised Land" by Chuck Berry with lyrics that include "Los Angeles, give me Norfolk, Virginia, Tidewater four ten oh nine.."

Here's a link to her journey west:

The Promised Land Tour, 4-10-09

My journey from Norfolk, Virginia to the left coast will be in July. It's 122 days until the start of race one. Come on y'all to the Promised Land.



Promised Land, by Chuck Berry (1964)

I left my home in Norfolk Virginia,
California on my mind.
Straddled that greyhound, rode him past Raleigh,
On across Caroline.

Stopped in Charlotte and bypassed Rock Hill,
And we never was a minute late.
We was ninety miles out of Atlanta by sundown,
Rollin' cross the Georgia state.

We had motor trouble it turned into a struggle,
Half way cross Alabam',
And that hound broke down and left us all stranded
In downtown Birmingham.

Straight off, I bought me a through train ticket,
Ridin' cross Mississippi clean
And I was on that midnight flyer out of Birmingham
Smoking into New Orleans.

Somebody help me get out of Louisiana
Just help me get to Houston town.
There's people there who care a little 'bout me
And they wont let the poor boy down.

Sure as you're born, they bought me a silk suit,
Put luggage in my hands,
And I woke up high over Albuquerque
On a jet to the promised land.

Workin' on a t-bone steak a la carte
Flying over to the Golden State;
The pilot told me in thirteen minutes
Wed be headin' in the terminal gate.

Swing low sweet chariot, come down easy
Taxi to the terminal zone;
Cut your engines, cool your wings,
And let me make it to the telephone.

Los Angeles give me Norfolk Virginia,
Tidewater four ten o nine
Tell the folks back home this is the promised land callin
And the poor boys on the line.