2026 HARLEY-DAVIDSON FXLRST REVIEW – “WE DONE PISSIN’ ABOUT?”

We have entered a new era, pilgrims.

 

This era finds me tetchy and fey. Things I knew as gospel are no longer valid. New truths have been born and old truths buried.

Gone are the days when you had to wait for your Harley-ridin’ mate to catch up. Truth be told, and I have told you, we have been approaching the end of that unfortunate and shameful time for a while now.

 

And now, with the advent of the 2026 FXLRS and FXLRST, and their 117-inch HO (High Output) fireball engines, it has finally ended.

But you don’t believe me, do you? Of course, you don’t. I didn’t believe it myself at first. Hence me being all tetchy and shit.

 

Sure, Harley has made some serious strides in its grand tourer range, and its 121-cube Street Glide and Road Glide are now very refined and capable tourers. Yes, they still feel like Harleys. The DNA remains. But they are no longer what you thought they were in your biased and ignorant mind.

Anyway, last year, Milwaukee decided it was going to paint some of this evolutionary magic onto its Softail range – and specifically the two Lowriders, the FXLRS and the FXLRST.

 

The T, if you’re wondering, is for the touring version which has a bigger fairing and panniers. But it is the engine that will amuse and delight you the most. I went to the Australian Press Launch, which you can read about HERE, and spent most of my time laughing and honking at just how much bang these new Lowriders offered. Put either Low Rider bastard in Sport mode and see what an extra 500rpms, some cam-evil, and intake improvements mean in the real world.

 

 

 

And in the real world, my real world, this means you have to keep up and bang along with your mates who ride sportsbikes, adventure bikes, and crazy-arse nakeds. Unless your real world is you and a bunch of other Harley riders engaging in some parade-riding bullshit with Road Generals, Web Administrators, and Safety Officers.

 

Folks like that cannot ride fast enough or hard enough to keep non-Harley riders in sight. And the old Harleys couldn’t do it even if their owners wanted to. So, they ride exclusively with other Harley riders.

I ain’t like them people. My friends, some of whom are Harley riders cut from a very different cloth to the ones mentioned above, also ride all sorts of bikes. And always at a pace people make tut-tut noises about.

 

Now then, once a year, some of my friends engage in an annual ritual to commemorate Coxy. A small group rides from Singleton to Bathurst and back to Singleton, via Lithgow and the Putty. It’s 600-odd kms. Leave at 7am. Be back before the sun goes down. Easy. But there is no room for hurt feelings, frowny faces, or “pissin’ about”, as Bill, our Chief Timekeeper and Sauso-Roll Sampler, informs us annually.

The pace is…erm, brisk. It has to be. Bill is determined to get back to Singo before sundown. None of us are sure why. It’s possible Bill feels vampires may affront us upon the Putty when the sun goes down. It’s possible he is on a promise and some lucky lady waits in pre-moistened anticipation. It’s just as possible he just wants to get home before it’s dark.

 

We ask each year. And each year we are left ignorant. Ultimately, it does not matter. We have a deadline, and a deadline gives men purpose. And men with purpose on stupid high-powered motorcycles are not to be messed with. Pissin’ around is not on the menu.

This year, I took the black Low Rider ST I was keeping company with. I had to know if it was the real deal in the real world. Me thinking that and me proving that (or not) are two different things.

 

My companions are capable, mean-eyed, and prone to a bare minimum of pissin’ about. Duncan (BMW S1000RR), Aaron (Yamaha FJR), Bill (Yamaha MT01 SP), Batesy (Yamaha R1), Mars (Kawasaki ZX10), Cam (BMW S1000RR), and Al (Yamaha MT09) all understand the deadline.

For me to even keep them in sight, the Low Rider ST needs to be properly capable. And responsive to my needs to not to be a bitch in front of my mates. They judge harshly, and I have no need to arrive for lunch in Bathurst an hour after the bastards have eaten it.

 

Would the Low Rider ST manage this? I honestly had no idea. Riding a Harley at a launch with other Harleys is one thing. Chasing speed-weapons on lonely country roads? That’s another thing altogether.

\We kept it civilised from Singo to Sandy Hollow. It’s the New England Highway, a major revenue-raising thoroughfare for the Granny Zappers. None of us are sure why we stop at Sandy Hollow to get petrol, but we always do. Bill, apart from his driving need to avoid the setting of the sun, is also determined to never run out of petrol. This determination may or may not be linked to some old trauma where Bill was stranded in the wilderness and possibly subjected to the rough manners of passing truckies. He doesn’t say. And yes, we do ask about that too.

 

The Bylong Valley Way (BVW) is thus addressed with full tanks.

 

If any road will test your bike, your balls, and your skill, it is this one. Especially if you’re not pissin’ about. And we weren’t.

 

Initially, I honestly thought: Yeah, I’ll see you bastards in Rylstone. Surely the Low Rider ST is going to deal with the BVW in the traditional Harley way of looking great, sounding big, but not quite managing the sometimes-iffy surface, fast sweepers, and steep hairpins, like say, an MT10SP.

And yet here I was. Banging. Like, seriously, banging. In the middle of them. OK, hand on my heart, it did tend to understeer a bit when pushed really hard in a very un-Christian manner into corners. And the front-end does not have the feel of a sportsbike. Of course, it doesn’t. And I would like it better with Brembos. And Öhlins. That said, since Harley binned the progressive springs and replaced them with constant rate jobbies, and increased the travel a touch, the stock suspension is not too bad at all.

 

But what the FXLRST also has in 2026, and what enables it to stay with the fast company I was in, is its insane 117-cube HO engine, and a host of electric rider aids – Traction Control, Cornering Traction Control, Drag Torque Slip-Control (like a slipper clutch) and a Cornering Enhanced Anti-Lock Brake System (for when you’ve entered a wet corner at the wrong speed, understood it is your time to die, and apply the brakes, only to rejoice that it was not your time to die).

“That gets along alright,” Duncan said to me when we stopped briefly at the closed Bylong Café so my bladder would leave me alone.

 

“Each time I looked in my mirrors you were in them,” Cam said. “It doesn’t seem right.”

“No-one is more surprised than me,” I shrugged. “I’m actually a bit blown away by how good it is.”

 

“It’s a Harley,” Bill said. “It needs to be set on fire.”

 

Have I mentioned Billy doesn’t like Harleys? It’s right up there with darkness and running out of petrol. And it’s a source of great amusement to his best mate, Batesy, who owns a Harley as well as an R1. Batesy actually bought an R1 because he was tired of arriving at Rylstone with a smashed crankcase, which he got trying to keep up with us.

 

“If you need to burn it, you first need to catch it,” I smiled.

“He secretly wants one,” Batesy grinned. “He had to buy a fully chromed Triumph Thunderbird to ease his way to the Harley he really wants. You have to walk before you can run, Bill. That’s how it goes.”

 

Bill said several unkind things to us all. But they came from a place of love, so none of us were offended. But, Bill also felt we were pissin’ around a bit too much.

 

“We done pissin’ around? Let’s go,” he growled.

 

Aaron, who understood full well the next section of our route, Rylstone-Ilford-Sofala-Bathurst is, for all intents and purposes, a racetrack where the strength of our urine would be measured, tried to reason with Bill.

“Mate, the pub doesn’t serve lunch until 12. Every year we get there at quarter-past eleven, and you stand at the bistro counter staring at the lady who is not taking orders until noon.”

 

“So?” Bill blinked at him.

 

There was no response possible there, as Aaron knew.

 

We mounted up and rode on.

 

I was fairly confident I could wind it on a bit on that magical section between Ilford and Sofala. The surface is really good. The kangaroos are also all mostly asleep. And if someone, say Duncan, is happy to wood-duck at the front, I’m happy to sit behind him.

 

My heel touched the tarmac a few times in corners. Gently. Like a kiss. My FXLRST had been fitted with forward controls instead of the stock mid-mounts. I adjusted my feet and pressed on. I could see Duncan. I could not catch him. But I could see him. And he was not getting away. I mean, he could have. But then he’s doing a speed where road-side execution rather than jail is the option.

 

The Low Rider ST held its own. Which was quite amazing. Five short years ago, what I was doing would not have been possible. Hell, two years ago, the 2024 FXLRST could not have done this. I could not have MADE it do this.

But in 2026 it was made precisely to do this. It held its lines, though, like I said, it did understeer some when it got really quick. There was some lack of proper sportsbike feel at the front, but it’s not a sportsbike, is it? It was stable at speed, the fairing worked, the riding position was OK, because it had been fitted with forward controls and they always feel strange when you’re pushing hard. But it was comfy, no argument. The seat is brilliant.

 

I love the sheer Old School simplicity of the ride the Low Rider gives you. It’s got engine modes (but just leave it in Sport mode – trust me). And the electronics mentioned above. But there’s just an analogue speedo, that crazy booming engine, and your red right hand. Hell, you still lock it with a key at the steering head.

 

But the more you dial it up, the more engaging the package gets. It will thrill you rather than terrify you, like Harleys did in recent and not-so-recent times when you made them earn their garage space.

 

The absence of sportbike precision is actually part of the Low Rider’s innate appeal. It is so utterly engaging to ride quickly, and that greatly attracts me. It’s not hard to go quick, mind you. Not like it used to be. But you must have an idea of what you’re doing and asking of it, and you can’t scare easy. If you’ve not ridden a Low Rider before and cut your speed-teeth on Japanese and European bikes, it will feel very different.

But you’ll be fine. Go with it. It’s so worth it.

 

You poor Royal Enfield riders need to just move on. None of this, any of this, remotely applies to you.

So, we got to Bathurst. And my companions were all looking at me funny. Was it actually possible the Harley stayed with them the whole way? Batesy examined my primary case. It was intact. What sorcery was this? It’s not like I was riding out of my skin or out of my comfort zone. I was just riding. With my friends.

 

“Guess the days of wondering where the Harley rider is are over,” Aaron said quietly.

“Guess so,” I smiled.

 

Harley is done pissin’ about.