The lanky young man
flicked away a cigarette butt as he stood by his dirtbike. He looked like he
had seen it all, even in his twenties. Was he the quintessential West Virginia
mountaineer? Rugged clothes, rugged look to his continence and yet not a
stereotype.
"Hello," I said.
He said something back I
could not make out as I passed him. A greeting back I thought as I entered the
general store in Sandstone, West Virginia. After paying for my gas, I stepped
back out to notice there was a little dog little dog strapped to the gas tank
of the dirt bike. He barked with excitement at the sight of the UPS truck that
had pulled up in front of the store.
The young man decided it
was time to go. He swung onto the seat of the bike and started the ignition. It
revved up with a roaring buzz. His little friend could be heard, even over the
buzz making sure the UPS man knew he was there.
Quickly though, the man tore out of the small depression the general store sat upon, up over a set of railroad tracks. He then tore a left hand turn onto the main road and popped a wheelie. It was quite a sight from where I stood. The man popping the wheelie set against the black wall of rock behind him. His hair flying, the dog looking like a hairy blur on the bike. Off they went into the late afternoon day. That was my first impression of West Virginia.
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