Doesn’t matter what your step-dad said, this cherry-licorice-lacquered Harley was made for sweet sunset joyrides. So when Liz Basinger’s eyes go wide at the engine’s meaty cinnamon growl, you’ve got no choice. Pistons dripping molasses, dual tailpipes blowing grilled-herb smoke, with pines whizzing by on either side. Her arms wrapped around your purloined leather jacket, strawberry sweet nothings in your ear—you’re going faster, faster, intoxicated by the open road. Now if you can just figure out how to break.
95 Points, Wine Advocate
