It was mid-summer, the long weekend in August. Some places call it a civic holiday, some places call it a bank holiday. If you grew up on Prince Edward Island, you didn’t really have a name for it; you just knew it was the weekend that Speedo-clad Quebecers would invade the north shore beaches, year after year.

I was camped out in my family’s old fishing shack on the Island’s north shore with my riding buddy Evan, but we weren’t going to the beach on this trip. We’d scooted over to PEI the evening before via our favorite New Brunswick back roads. Run up the 121 to Roachville, then jump on the 895. Eventually you’d leave behind the Kennebecasis River’s meanderings for the vineyards and farms of the 890. Doglegging around the highway and major towns like this, you added a couple of hours to the run to the Island, but it was well worth it; our 650s (mine a Suzuki, his a Kawasaki) were perfectly-suited to the backroad pace. The air was hot but highway speeds kept a breeze moving through our jackets, and besides, when we got to our base for the evening, we could jump off the wharf and go for a swim in the channel by the sandbar.

A backroad run up the Kennebecasis River usually requires a stop at the Pet Sematary… as long as you trust the free bottled water in the cooler outside, specifically left there for motorcyclists. Kinda creepy in a Stephen King kinda way, but as far as I know, nobody’s been murdered here yet. Photo: Zac Kurylyk

The plan, the next morning, was to meet up with my friend Fred (not his real name). Evan didn’t know Fred, but I’d known him for several years. When I was a kid, he’d owned a motorcycle shop close to my house, but I didn’t meet Fred until 20 years later, when he attended the Dawn To Dusk Rally that I helped organize. We’d stayed in touch ever since, riding together whenever he was in my area. Today, he was going to show us some dirt roads.

Fred was on his Yamaha XT225, so the pace wasn’t too fast, but his years of exploring PEI—especially his retirement years—were on display that day. No matter what corner of the Island we were in, he knew a good road to get to the next stop. The old kind of roads that are uncommon outside farm country, with trees overhanging the whole way; clay two-track that would be slippery after rain, but was dry today. Some sections would be paved, but Fred knew his way around well, and we didn’t spend much time on tarmac. He knew where to find the good look-offs, too; a bridge over a river, or a farmer’s field with a hill in just the right place, that let you see half the county spread out in front of you. Or that’s what it felt like, anyway.

Evan would have liked a faster pace, and if I was on better tires, I might have felt the same, but it was really just a relaxing day trip, and I was happy to get back home without a sketchy slide into the woods on the clay. It was the perfect mid-summer break from the day job, just over 24 hours on the road mixing the best paved and unpaved routes.

This farmer’s field didn’t look like much, but it had enough elevation that you could see for miles and miles. The kind of place you’d never discover without a dual sport. Photo: Zac Kurylyk

The day’s ride was enough to convince me that PEI’s farm roads were a lot more interesting than they first appeared. When I’d lived here, I mostly stuck to street riding, as I’d owned a string of low-rider UJMs in university. That didn’t stop me from riding dirt, but it did cut down on the fun factor, especially the time I got my XS650 Heritage Special stuck in a swamp when I ignored the Road Closed sign in the back end of Fernwood. Sinking deeper into the muck with every step on a road destroyed by logging trucks, I’d had to drag the bike to safety on its side. I emerged on the other side of the bog filthy, and my bike was in even worse shape, but we were both in fine mechanical condition, so to speak. I cleaned the muck off the bike by leaving it outside in a December blizzard. The snow did a better job than any car wash.

I must have ridden within a mile of this bridge many, many times when I lived on PEI, but never explored the dirt roads here until Fred showed us the way. Photo: Zac Kurylyk

Years later, the ride with Fred was enough to convince me I needed to start mapping out PEI’s dirt roads so people could piece together a route, instead of aimlessly wandering through pastures and getting lost themselves in a closed, rutted-out swamp. I worked away at it slowly for a couple of years, laying out maps and exploring with my cousin Glen. We didn’t get too far because we have other responsibilities, but I felt like I was at the start of a good thing when an unexpected Facebook post connected me with some like-minded Islanders in winter of 2024. Since then, we’ve all ramped up the work and I think you’ll see a GPS route released soon, sharing a ferry-to-bridge ride with anyone who wants to explore outside PEI’s tourist trap areas.

Since that pre-COVID ride, I’ve been exploring PEI’s dirt roads with friends and relations, mapping out the best way to fit in as much fun and sight-seeing as possible. Photo: Zac Kurylyk

Most of that work will have been done by hard-working locals, but for my part, what little I’ve been able to contribute is all a direct result of riding with Fred, and I look back fondly at that short trip, in the last few months before pandemic restrictions changed our lives forever.

But it’s a sad memory, too. COVID rules meant I wasn’t able to get back and ride with Fred for a couple of years. The next time I saw him, it was too late. He was selling off his bikes—doctor’s orders. His motorcycle magazine collection was gone already, and the riding paraphernalia he couldn’t fit into his new house.

“Goodbye,” he told me, when I left that day. And he meant it in a permanent way. We haven’t talked since; dementia caught him, like so many others seemingly sped up by the months of isolation during lockdowns.

Hitting middle age is scary. You start to notice that you can no longer carry on like you’re in your 20s and 30s; you notice even more grim changes in your older friends and mentors. The guys that I looked up to when I started writing for moto mags are mostly 60 and older, thinking about retirement. The only thing more intimidating than seeing the years start to creep up on you in your current generation is looking ahead, seeing friends who are farther along than you, and realizing time is short. Soon, you’ll be where they are.

But I was talking to Evan just this morning. He’s looking at selling his dirt bike, and buying another 650 after a few years away from street-legal machines. Maybe this summer we’ll have to go back and visit those roads again. Now that we know where we’re going, it’ll be even more fun. Time hasn’t run out on us just yet;  riding season is here, and it’s time to make the best of it before another cold winter hits.

Trail Break runs on the first Monday of every month, unless Zac forgets about it, or gets worked up about something in the days in-between scheduled columns …