Strawberry Lightning might be the fastest soapbox car on these suburban streets, but it wasn’t built for hairpin turns. Now you’re a wayward rocket of cranberry gloss and orange-copper style—perfectly aerodynamic—crashing through the crowd in a panicked rain of cinnamon sunhats and cherry-lemonade Italian ice. You take a face full of wild berry pie, then rip through steep lavender hillsides, lime-zest lens flashes, and the reassuring thought that you’re giving these Midwestern moms a crash they’ll never forget.