ROAD TRIP

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There’s a pond just off the edge of Sayre, Pennsylvania, tucked away like a well-kept secret that never wanted to be famous. Sayre Pond. If you've magnet fished long enough — especially in the rust belt fringe towns that wrap around New York and Pennsylvania — you learn to spot the good spots by the scars they leave on your magnets. And Sayre Pond? She leaves marks like a jealous ex. A reliable place, not because you always find treasure, but because she never pretends to be more than what she is: a former dumping ground trying to look picturesque in retirement.

The banks are worn. You see ripples, not from fish but from something submerged and forgotten — a pipe, a rusted bracket, maybe an old folding chair. I've hauled out all kinds of ghosts from this place. Railroad spikes and plates. Bikes. Lures. Bolts. Brass knucks. Enough tangled wire to knit a sweater for a scrapyard rat. And I keep coming back. Because Sayre Pond doesn’t change. It just stays true to itself — rust, weeds, and all.

Then the road turns. You cruise up Keystone Avenue. Not in a hurry. Never in a hurry around here. That would be missing the point. The road rises gently as you pass into Waverly, NY — the border barely matters except for the signs. Waverly holds itself like a place that was once buzzing, and now watches the world speed by from its front porch. There used to be diners here. Taverns. The kind of places you can still smell in the memories of locals — grease, cigarette smoke, laughter dulled by time. But I won't pretend to remember them all — not unless you were sitting there with me on a barstool, peeling the label off a beer bottle while some guy named Dale told you about a ghost at the old train yard.

Keep going and you pass the shell of O’Brien’s Inn, just off the edge of the hill, overlooking the valley. You don't need to go in to feel the echoes. O’Brien’s was the place — once. I won’t feed you ghost stories or rumors unless I know them, but the truth is the sign still flickers in my memory like it’s welcoming back the class of ’73 for one more drink and a dance.

Roll onward, into Chemung. The trees get taller and the fields wider. Chemung is quiet. But it holds a roar. Because just beyond the houses, past the mailboxes and weathered barns, is Chemung Speedrome — one of the Northeast’s lesser-known shrines to motorsport madness. The Bodines, Brian Vickers, Richie Evans raced there and went on to NASCAR. This is where the pavement meets adrenaline, where legends in the making learned to wrestle 3,000 pounds of fury on Saturday nights while the crowd roasted in the bleachers, clutching hot dogs and hope. Past legends: George Kent Jr, Herbie Green, David Guyette, Chubby Chandler, Jackie Soper, and many more

You don't need to know the full history to feel the weight of it. It’s in the guardrails. The cracked concrete. The distant echo of a starter’s pistol and the scream of a stock car pushing too hard into turn three.

This isn’t a trip for scenery. It’s a trip for texture. For memory. For the sound of your tires on the road and the things you don’t say out loud because the rust and the river already said it better.

If this road reminds you of a trip you've taken — one filled with rust, memory, and a little adrenaline — drop a comment below. Subscribe for more forgotten roads, rusted treasures, and roadside stories that deserve a second glance.

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