2025 Can-Am Canyon First Ride: Three-Wheel FOMO

This isn't a story about politics, I swear. However, Can-Am, which stands for "Canada-America," invited me to Arizona to test the Canyon, a new three-wheeler. It's like the Spyder except it's designed to "democratize all roads," making adventure riding more accessible.

It's hard to avoid thinking about international relations, even briefly, when taking a rest break on a comfortable beast of a three-wheeled vehicle wearing a Quebec license plate, while surrounded by French-speaking folk joining us from the motorsports company's headquarters. Our president was probably on social media sniping at the new Canadian prime minister at that very moment, but I didn't have reception out in Prescott National Forest.

Fortunately, for now, our good neighbors to the north are still sharing their toys.

This is an all-new vehicle for the Can-Am three-wheeler family, and it's designed to be accessible to buyers who are new to motorsports. Can-Am is confident there's a market for the Canyon that's distinct not only from the Spyder and Ryker, but even from Can-Am's and competitors' other all-terrain vehicles, such as quads and side-by-sides. These vehicles are mostly distinct in audience and purpose, but do have some overlap that's worth considering. If you're going to spend $30,000 or more on a toy, what are the must-haves?

From Can-Am's perspective, the Canyon serves a market that didn't have a perfect option. This shopper is financially stable (obviously, given both the sticker price and the ostensible time and financial commitment to adventuring), has reasons for not wanting a motorcycle (or has a motorcycle but prefers something more comfortable and with more storage for traveling), and wants a vehicle suited for highway travel as well as dirt roads and trails (though the Canyon is not a dedicated off-road vehicle).

The Canyon is based on the Spyder, with shared features like a Rotax 1330 Ace engine with a semi-automatic transmission, Brembo brakes, cruise control, dynamic power steering, and LED lighting. However, the Canyon boasts 6.3 inches of ground clearance, a higher approach angle, and all-terrain tires.

All three Canyon trims feature an adjustable windshield, hand guards, a 10.25-inch touchscreen display with USB and Bluetooth integration, and Apple CarPlay. Apple CarPlay can be used only with a communications-equipped helmet, and Android Auto compatibility is in the works. If and when Android integration becomes available, all Canyons will be eligible for a software upgrade to accommodate it. All models feature Can-Am's Linq system, with attachment points around the bike for Can-Am accessories. Options include several sizes and grades of top and side cases, a cooler, camera mounts, a fuel caddy, a heated seat, and smaller or larger windshields.

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The base Canyon, from $25,299, is designed for a solo rider, though it can accommodate a passenger with an optional top case or backrest added for support. It comes with few accessories, by design, for someone who would rather choose their own. The Canyon XT, $29,799, adds aluminum top and side cases, comfort foot pegs, heated hand grips, a passenger backrest, a skid plate, and an air suspension system. The Canyon Redrock, $32,999, comes with premium storage, a rearview camera, KYB Smart-Shox semi-active suspension, and exclusive olive green body panels and bronze wheels. This version can also save a custom driving mode. (The other two can customize a driving mode, but it will reset when the vehicle is turned off.)

I am not, shall we say, a thrill seeker. I've done plenty of dumb things in my life, have a decent list of both mistakes I regret and mistakes I look upon fondly. So trust me when I say that when Can-Am says they want to democratize three-wheeling, they mean it.

That's because the day started out great. We traveled along two-lane highways to a tiny town I'll never forget (greeted by a sign that said "Welcome to Skull Valley! Watch for children!") where, in the name of scenic photography, the Can-Am team had us ride laps down a road that passed a church, a trailer park, and a couple opulent ranches, turned under a railroad bridge, and came to a stop at an intersection with two general stores that faced each other silently across the dusty road. At one point, a freight train passed over the rustic bridge as I was passing under it with just a few inches of clearance between my helmet and the tracks, which is an experience I don't need to revisit. However, I was delighted to recognize some Chicago-based graffiti on the train cars, some 1,800 miles from home.

We carried on along a combination of highways and trails. I kept falling behind the group, eventually quite far behind the group, because it wasn't all that fun for me to maintain super high speeds while unfamiliar with the vehicle, the terrain, and the wildlife. I reviewed the Can-Am Spyder and Ryker almost exactly a year earlier, and found both of those bikes far more stable, though the Canyon is certainly capable of higher speeds than I was.

The trails are lovely. Gravel gives way to sharp rocks that give way to cartoonish, blobby moon-like rocks that inspire dreamy reverie until a jack rabbit runs across your path and you slam on the brakes just in time to hit a massive puddle left over from the flash floods earlier that week, and as you're trying to keep the Can-Am from toppling into a ditch and destroying your career, you're simultaneously grateful for that day's clear skies.

Despite my excess caution, shifting the Can-Am Canyon is super easy, which boosted confidence somewhat over smoother surfaces. It's similar to the Spyder and Ryker, with paddle shifters mounted to the left side of the handlebars. There's no clutch, which makes it accessible to non-motorcyclists but is counterintuitive to those accustomed to riding a traditional two-wheeler. Instead, you tap the paddle to shift up; you can manually downshift if you prefer, or the bike will do it automatically. The transmission produces an audible click as it shifts, which I found oddly comforting as my anxiety simmered. There's a firm brake pedal on the right, perhaps a bit too firm on slippery terrain, and a reverse mode, too, with a standard backup camera on the Redrock model.

At lunch, one of the Can-Am employees leading our group had graciously insisted he'd stay behind with me for the second segment of the ride, since the others' frantic pace both pushed my comfort level to the limit and seemed, to me, beside the point. Why fly out to Arizona, then be shuttled to a town two hours from the airport, just to blast through terrain I'd never before seen at speeds that prevented me from actually enjoying it? I'm grateful I was able to admire a pair of napping antelope just a few feet away without startling them, watch hawks dive for prey, and get super close to some amazing landscape features I'd never before seen.

The trail evolved into a slow, scenic ascent. There was level ground on both sides for quite some time, so my spine didn't start to tingle with recognition and warning until it was almost too late. As is the point of the Can-Am Canyon, to each their own. In my case, that meant creeping along the increasingly steep, narrow, and slippery mountain switchbacks at 30, 20, and finally 10 miles per hour while my guide ascended out of sight. "I need to get home to my kid," I kept thinking, whenever my bike skidded on the mud or gravel, to the cliff face to my immediate right or the sheer drop-off to my immediate left, seemingly at random.

I'm aware I'd have been more stable at a steady speed, but deeply ingrained paranoia kicks logic's butt every time. When I looked up and across a valley to my left, saw the road curved around to where it was higher, steeper, narrower, and closer to the mountain faceI stopped. I'd hit my limit. The Wrangler driven by our support team stopped behind me, and I motioned for them to pull up.

"Is that (pointing across valley) where we're going? Because I can't do this."

You see where this is going, probably before I did. Fortunately, I'd completed most of the ride, so I felt OK about letting my heart rate return to normal in the support Jeep. A Can-Am employee with a charming Quebecois accent, who'd been tailing along for mechanical support, was fortunately not needed for his actual task — almost miraculously, the more adventurous riders in my group managed not to puncture any tires or dislodge any accessories. He hopped out and completed the trip on my bike, higher into the mountains until the trail threaded its way back down through the pines and cacti. Merci, good neighbor.

I'm still not really sure what went wrong, though I can confidently say it was user error, mental if not physical. When I tested the Can-Am Spyder a year ago, I adjusted to the bike pretty quickly, and expected a similar experience with the Canyon. That was not the case. Even on smooth highway, I felt top-heavy and off-balance; even as I flicked through the extensive menu of drive modes and comfort settings, I never found one that made the bike feel more stable than skittish.

To be clear, my experience with the Can-Am Canyon wasn't so much bad, as just that it wasn't for me. The three-wheeler does exactly what Can-Am says it will, and even as I was freaking out, at no point did I have any concern about the bike's build quality or attention to detail. It looks really cool from a distance, and even better close up; the top-tier Redrocks model I rode wears a subtly shimmery, almost-black textured finish on metal parts, and the top and side cases have thick, satisfying rubber pop-on covers to protect the locks from debris and rust. 

If I was in the bike's target market, I'd absolutely want one, and even as I type this, I'm still wondering how or why I'm not the ideal customer. It looks cool! It can go most places, and surely, someday I'll find a place I want to go! The cargo boxes, standard and optional, can hold tons of camping gear, and believe it or not, I actually like camping! It can even tow up to 400 pounds! Honestly, I feel a little left out because I'm not craving this thing. Oh well, je me souviens, as they say in Quebec.