Three days, nine hundred and forty kilometres, and nearly six thousand metres of climbing. That was the challenge I set for myself on a rental bike with simple bikepacking bags. The goal was to trace the entire edge of Canada’s smallest province: Prince Edward Island, or PEI as the locals call it. I was invited to a conference on the island, and since I was already flying to North America, I decided to combine the trip with a cycling adventure. When I looked at a map and saw that PEI could be circled in just under a thousand kilometres, I knew immediately this would be another “border ride” for my collection. What followed was three long days in the saddle, spent chasing coastlines, fighting wind, and seeking light.
Day One: West Point and North Point
Charlottetown still slept as I rolled out at half past five in the morning. The streets were silent, the only light behind me fading as I rode into the dark. Slowly, the sun rose over the rolling hills near Rocky Point, casting golden reflections across the bays.
I had originally planned for four days, but scarce accommodation options meant I needed to cover 322 kilometres to Alberton in a single push. The westerly wind made for tough going. The coastline alternated between farmland, marshes, and forests, with only the occasional fishing village like Victoria breaking the solitude.
Past Summerside, the island emptied into vast, quiet stretches. I passed churches perched on cliffs, rode over bridges spanning lazy rivers, and even learned something of Acadian history from the flags fluttering on porches. By the time I reached the western edge, the gravel had turned a deep red under my tyres. The wind shifted, and suddenly the ride became magic. I was gliding along cliffs with the sea at my side as the late sun spilled copper light across the land.
At North Point, the most northerly tip, the paved road ended, giving way to gravel and boardwalk paths that hugged the collapsing cliffs. It was beautiful, lonely, and raw. As the sun set, I finally turned inland for Alberton with my stomach rumbling. At my lodge, I found two lobsters and potato salad waiting in the fridge. I washed my kit, slipped into clean clothes, and slept like a baby.
Day Two: The North Coast
The next morning began in darkness again. I had 359 kilometres ahead, from Alberton to Rollo at the eastern end of the island. Coffee was nowhere to be found, so I fuelled up with oat bars and a Maurten drink mix.
The sky was heavy and grey, and the landscape felt flat and muted. When the drizzle began, I reluctantly stopped to put on my rain jacket. Later, when the showers lifted, I shed the layer again. That rhythm of pulling gear on and peeling it off became the cadence of the day.
The middle of the day brought some of the island’s most famous sights: white beaches tucked between red cliffs, fishing harbours hidden in coves, and lighthouses standing watch. A cinnamon bun and coffee in Stanley Bridge carried me through Cavendish and past the dunes of Brackley Beach, where melted chocolate cookies glued my hands together in the afternoon sun.
By the afternoon, the north coast became lonelier. Past St. Peters, the road stretched into an endless ribbon, with the sea only sometimes visible through the trees. Rain threatened again, so I pulled on the jacket once more, this time before darkness fell.
Night came quickly. At East Point, the easternmost tip, the stars lit up the sky. But fatigue and one aggressive driver shook my nerves. When a sudden downpour hit near Souris, I ducked into a bar and ate a pizza while curious locals asked where I was from. I set off again under a clearing sky, and by the time I reached my hotel in Rollo, I was frozen but grateful for a hot shower and a warm bed.
Day Three: Morning Light Over the Water
With only 259 kilometres left, I allowed myself a later start. Still, within minutes of setting off, I was pulling over to add layers. It was icy cold despite the sunshine, so I put on my gloves and two jackets. The morning light shimmered beautifully across Fortune Bay, and I kept stopping to take photos.
The day was kinder. Small villages like Cardigan and Georgetown broke up the stretches of farmland and forest, their wooden houses and fishing harbours offering glimpses of local life. Trails alternated with highways, and Saturday yard sales created unexpected traffic jams. There were trucks loaded with furniture, Jeeps circling from sale to sale, and two girls who waved as they passed me a few times on their “yard sale-ing” adventure. I later learned it was the island’s famous “70-Mile Yard Sale,” a community event stretching across the province.
By the afternoon, I was back on Highway One, fighting a steady headwind. Even though the end was in reach and I had enough food, one more gas station stop was needed for a final boost. It is amazing what a single can of Coke can do.
As the sun dipped low, I reached Wood Islands, then Stratford, with the city of Charlottetown glowing across the water. I took one final photo of the skyline at sunset and then rolled over the bridge. The journey was complete: 940 kilometres, three days, and the edge of Prince Edward Island traced in full.
Reflections
What I’ll remember most are the red cliffs crumbling into the sea, the solitude of the northern stretches, the glow of early light on still bays, and the constant rhythm of stopping to add or shed layers as the island’s weather shifted. PEI may be Canada’s smallest province, but riding its edge felt bigger than its size, measured in kilometres, coastline, and the sheer presence of land and sea. It was just a thin strip of asphalt at the edge of the island, and me, riding it.
