On the home stretch of the drive from Denver to Pittsburgh, you cut at one point through the West Virginia panhandle, a roughly ten-mile stretch of winding Appalachian interstate. It's one of the prettiest sections of the whole trip, and it also provides the setting for one-half of my exactly two experiences with West Virginians. About two miles into the state, I was gunning it up a steep hill when a large tire rolled past in the opposite direction, shortly after which a group of some four yokels came into view around the bend chasing after it full-tilt. About twenty seconds after that, I came upon their tire-less car. A short time later, after I had settled in to Pittsburgh (it wasn't long before I split up with my ex-wife and moved back to Denver), I got work remodeling a house with a West Virginian dude who was so universally racist that he referred to Italians as "dagos" with no... More >>>