Touring Street Glide ST (MY2022)

Comfort is where the ST makes you sign for what it gives back. The low-speed heft is the honest one: keep it rolling and the pounds recede, but thread a full-lock turn or inch through a packed lot and you're leaning on real slow-speed control, and nobody eases into that skill on this machine. The saddle is the other tax. It sits harder than the touring badge would lead you to guess, kind enough for a couple of hours and stingy once the miles stack into a full day. Push to a steady highway clip and the airflow finds the grips before the fairing has fully done its job, so the front loses a little of its edge. The stretched-out posture keeps me working the bars happily on most roads, though a genuinely tight bend rewards long arms and leaves shorter ones reaching. What keeps it livable is the clear head-space up front: I read everything at a glance, and the shudder low in the revs settles in as character I'd miss if it left.

What won me over is how unbothered it stays when I ask for the brakes mid-bend. Get greedy with the lever while it's already carving through a corner and it settles down and keeps its arc instead of standing up or twitching. The way it parcels out engine braking, stopping force, and bias as the lean builds means the whole thing feels reachable and known rather than a knife-edge you nurse. On a bike this size, that steadiness under load is what lets me trust the front.

For all its bulk and ornament, the big-inch V-twin spins up with a lightness that catches you off guard, and a roll-on turns brisk in a hurry. The intake sits close and loud, answering each crack of the throttle with a thick mechanical rush from up beside you rather than a rumble fading off the tail. My one honest reservation is down at the very bottom: it reads cleaner and more measured than the raw look promises, still unmistakably Harley, just short of the snap the hardware hints at.

My take on long-term ownership rides on what these do secondhand: they hold their money stubbornly. Start comparing used asking prices and you feel the premium right away, and from the owner's side that stickiness is genuine cover. When the day comes to trade out, the ST hands back a far bigger slice of what you paid than most of what might have sat next to it on the showroom floor.

Order the lean-aware package and the electronics justify themselves. The traction control tracks how far you're leaned and simply stays quiet, no scolding, no obvious grabs, just tidier and more confident drive off the apex. It has the fingerprints of people who actually ride rather than a box ticked for the spec sheet, and on something this weighty that unshowy competence is a big part of what makes me willing to lean it over and mean it.

If one trait carries the ST, this is it. Parked and quiet, everything about it registers as a single, deliberate object, the kind of presence that pulls eyes before you've done a thing. And it refuses to pick a lane: some outings I want it under me purely for the occasion of showing up on something this composed, others I want to point the nose at a distant line on the map and just cover ground. It backs both fully without asking either to give way.

For living with it day to day, the built-in navigation stands out. It reads like it was drawn into the cockpit from the first sketch instead of tacked on afterward, and picking up directions on the move takes no fishing around. A lot of touring rigs hand you a map unit that feels pulled from a parts catalog. The way this one is woven into the dash is a lesson a few rivals in the class would do well to take.