VIRGINIANS are used to the president intruding on their lives: when Donald Trump played golf at the course that he owns in the leafy Virginia suburbs of Washington, D.C., boaters and paddlers were briefly banned from a two-mile stretch of the Potomac River that hugs the course. The policy, ordered by the Secret Service, was abandoned in late July after news reports that among those inconvenienced by the presidential security perimeter were veterans wounded in combat, about whom Mr. Trump has gushed.

But in another way, Mr. Trump continues to intrude on Virginia. The state’s gubernatorial election, due on November 7th, looks set to become a miniature referendum on his young, controversial administration.

Races for governor in Virginia used to be largely insulated from the national events that shape politics in other large, prosperous states. The state’s quirky tradition of off-year elections tended to reduce turnout, magnifying the strength of the most reliable voters: conservative whites. That gave the upper hand to candidates favoured by the etablishment, even as the country as a whole became less conservative.

But Virginia’s politics are aligning with the nation’s, largely because the state is growing and becoming increasingly diverse in the process. In this year’s contest for governor, that is an opportunity for Ralph Northam, the Democratic nominee, and an obstacle for his Republican opponent, Ed Gillespie. Polls offer conflicting snapshots of the race: a comfortable Democratic lead or a dead heat.

Virginia is the only state in the former Confederacy carried by Hillary Clinton over Mr. Trump. Since last November’s election, Mr. Trump has become even less popular. Particularly in the Democratic trove of northern Virginia, which is home to vast numbers of Asians, Hispanics and bureaucrats, the president’s ban on travellers from several mainly Muslim countries, his criticism of government employees and his vow to slash the federal budget have not gone down well.

As a result Mr. Northam, emboldened by a stronger-than-expected performance in the Democratic primary in June, is content to burden Mr. Gillespie, who nearly lost the Republican nomination to a Trump sound-alike, with the president’s record. The tactic of “guilt by association” could prove potent.

In particular, the Republican failure to scuttle Obamacare means that health care is once again among voters’ main concerns. This provides ammunition Mr. Northam can use in the blue suburbs, where health care is expensive, as well as in the red countryside, where it is scarce. As a pediatric neurologist who also teaches at a Norfolk medical school, Mr Northam can discuss health care with a measure of authority that perhaps conveys a doctor’s concern, not just a politician’s ambition. He has reduced the debate to one word: Trumpcare, telling audiences it could rob thousands of coverage.

By contrast, Mr. Gillespie, who advised George W. Bush junior and was once the chairman of the Republican National Committee, tries to avoid any mention of the president’s name. He is aware that Virginians’ distaste for Mr. Trump has turned into hostility toward Republicans in general.

This puts Mr Gillespie in a tricky position: to win the governorship, he needs solid support from Republicans and the backing of election-deciding independents. The former are demanding that Mr. Gillespie express fealty to Mr. Trump. The latter expect him to stand apart from the president.

A New Jersey-born professional talker who made a fortune as a lobbyist and communications advisor to blue-chip companies, Mr. Gillespie has attempted to satisfy these rival voter blocs by arguing that Virginia would be better served by a Republican governor, because he could engage more directly with a president of the same party. He also says that he is prepared to criticise policies with which he disagrees, such as proposed alternatives to Obamacare.

But so far, Mr. Gillespie has been largely silent on these questions. Instead, he has emphasised Virginia-specific issues, including a proposal to cut the state income tax. If the idea were fully implemented, it would cost nearly $1.5 bn a year—money that now goes to education, law enforcement and the social safety net.

Republican legislators publicly laud the scheme, but privately worry that it could inflict greater damage on Virginia’s budget than the last big Republican tax cut: a rollback in 1998 of a widely despised levy on cars that forced a $1.4bn tax increase when the state’s credit rating was threatened by a deficit four years later.

Until now, such proposals have failed to lure Mr. Northam from his largely single-issue campaign. While giving the occasional speech on economic development, education or transport the Democrat, whose accent recalls his birthplace on Virginia’s remote eastern shore, is betting that his audience will be stirred by a simpler message: dislike of Mr Trump.