Harleys seem a lot tougher for these kind of journeys than one might first believe. I go off-road on mine and it's b.brilliant.
Me too, all I worry about is a stone getting picked up by the belt...
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- Thread starter Melch
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Me too, all I worry about is a stone getting picked up by the belt...
Brilliant story (for those of you who don't understand Italian).
Harleys seem a lot tougher for these kind of journeys than one might first believe. I go off-road on mine and it's b.brilliant.
Wonderful, an Italian speaker. Be a treasure and translate the lot for us would you? Do say if I'm asking too much though. Thanking you in anticipation!
Wonderful, an Italian speaker. Be a treasure and translate the lot for us would you? Do say if I'm asking too much though. Thanking you in anticipation!
Plus 1. I'd love to read the report.
The first translation
Winds against
Strong wind, what makes you lower the helmet and swearing between his teeth, and 'this greeting Algeria.
With 500 km of Tunisia to the shoulder, a sleepless night spent in the saddle, and an empty belly, I come to the border Taleb Larbi.
They are so weak that the customs moments I lay me down to earth. Documents, paperwork, dams, bureaucracy, it seems that this country does not do anything to get me.
And 'all difficult, complicated, exhausting. But I recover and I will open before the Great Eastern Erg, and it 'still wind battered old Land Rover with donkeys plodding linked above, in the old brown djellaba lying on the sand at the edge of the road.
This is so hard to be attached to the handlebars of this old Road King, I think as the sand stings my face. But there is nothing to laugh: I still have 500 km to go before a bed and a shower.
The Algerian Tuareg in the north are different from the deep south, relaxed and free of anti-Western bias, but my fears Muslims are gradually swept away from their open-minded and hospitable, and where the most interesting 'to my bike and my only be on that long road, which is called trans-Saharan Central. This is a true "mother road" of those who liked Keruac, even if the beer is lacking here, the rock 'n roll and some beautiful blonde.
For days I stopped at the edge of this dusty tables long way, between flies and smell of grilled mutton. Dust and heat, rattle old Peugeot van on rough road, while someone puts me in front of a chorba, with the thumb dipped into the pot. In Algeria, there 'this curious tradition that the kids getting stoned in the West. In fact, a little 'I understand them: damn, do they think these types of files off-road tours pussy very fast crossing their village, without even looking at me? A stone, and 'what it takes to make them understand that there are too!
While through El Oued, a bit 'fearful, I notice that some kids collect rocks but then I do not pull them. Maybe I make him laugh a fool alone on an old bike that has nothing to do there own thing. And it all ends with a greeting and a smile. The distances without refueling sometimes exceed 400 km. Often added to the limit but I can always, including the times when there would be the distributor, but it 'out of gas!
The real show for a traveler of the trans-Saharan and 'watch the desert, changing before his eyes: the more' empty I have ever seen, Tademait, to the red and soft to the south of In-Salah, to Tamanrasset, from sand to the bare and dotted with Dolomite peaks.
I remember a sandwich eaten in a small square in the middle of nowhere Casotta, on the crossroads for trans-Saharan Timimoum. Cats lick my tin of tuna, deafening silence, a madam in a green caftan, asks me if I have something to sell, but I have nothing of which to discard, in the small bag tied to the fender. He says "there is no field." It is not 'not the only thing missing here, I think. My guide, a tall thin Tuareg called Moussa, baguette eats and drinks tea with two men with whom he exchanged a few words. Occasionally a truck trailer on the trans-Saharan screams to 35 degrees in the shade, in a small slice of the world where almost everything is missing, but where but 'no one seems to be worried.
And every day my alarm goes off at six and a half to a tea, a baguette and 750 km to do with the fork pointing south.
The wilderness profound changes again. At times it seems the Grand Canyon, with bright red sand, plush, high rock formations, then again becomes flat and desolate. The road is treacherous holes, I had one that sank, and the right shock ever loses oil, while the strap is an ominous creak. Tamanrasset, my goal is approaching while I drive compact, with his head straight, red scarf over his mouth and arms relaxed. The warm wind caresses me as a fon. The bike is low murmurs his speech and leads me through the Algerian desert.
The plateau and Tademait 'a plateau 550 meters on which lies the desert, on which I traveled 600 km. Then drop us off on the esplanade of In-Salah. I rely on those wheels and heavy and massive old two-cylinder.
Tamanrasset
And arriving in Tamanrasset and 'liberation: the road' so broken in some places there 'in the sand. For the rest, potholes in asphalt. Landscapes reminiscent of the Desert of the Tartars by Dino Buzzati. Black rocks, hundreds of meters high that rise from the warm yellow sand, the preconditions that the Hoggar Scalero 'tomorrow.
Now the machines are more and more 'rare, and' the kingdom of truckers, real masters of the trans-Saharan. I meet them up and down ', eat, greet flash. They have grim faces, but I guess that like me. Nod in front of a soup, then a few words exchanged in front of the bike.
Everyone asks "what does it do? How much? "And I," Ehh cheap, Slow, and 'old you see ... "
But giving birth on a skid, and I think:
"Old guys fucking, this bike splits" while the Desert opens in front of me for another day to the south.
At Tam, I was lucky enough to be invited to dinner by Mustafa, who with his wife Rashida prepares us an excellent couscous.
The night passed peacefully to end an evening in which a group makes music Tuareg.
Constant rhythms, psychedelic: the blues of the river Niger. Something that envelops me and not let me go to sleep even though I know that tomorrow will be 'the day the most' hard.
The eyes of one of the most profound singers, nail me to the cushions and carpet.
The Tuareg girls (the Targuie) are free because 'their company' and 'different benefits and females, (a legend says that the women did to men veil of shame, after their defeat in the war with the Tebu).
They have superior rights to inherit 'and choice of husband.
Then our girl gets up smiling, and begins a slow dance, that all men at that time, think it is dedicated to them ...
The Assekrem, Hoggar massif
The climb all'Assekrem, 2900 meters, and 'a challenge than what we know, no street bike has never accepted.
None except my Harley-Davidson.
The track 'uncertain, sandy, often separated and lost.
You choose your own, like life.
At first it looks good, then worsens or you lose, but you must continue, despite the terrible tole-ondulee.
I observe from dolomitic rocks, and seem to smile as when we see an ant struggling with a grain of sand.
The track gradually gets worse as you walk up and start the real problems: broken rocks and sharp, black volcanic rocks as sin.
From 1500 to 2900 meters, around every corner there's a new landscape with red and brown needles, around which the crows and buzzards fly slowly.
You only hear the sound of my engine that pulls in second. Sometimes in the third. Often the first to bail them out.
80 km of beautiful effort, where you scroll around and you think they will never make it.
But suddenly, there we are.
At the top there is a refuge and a small square building.
And 'the retreat of Charles de Foucauld, a Catholic monaco, founder of the Little Brothers of Jesus, who lived his last years here, to the death for murder by the sect of Senusi believed that a French spy.
The atmosphere and 'intimate and difficult to tell: I can just enjoy being able to get here.
Within the shelter to rest, the bike out, which takes your breath away like me.
Inside and 'beautiful carpets, mattresses and oozing ghirbe sheep to keep the water fresh.
The Tuaregs have prepared green tea ritual, drinking three glasses of the glass. They speak Arabic and tight smile.
Who knows' if they understand why 'of my business, on a strange bike, bulky like a huge camel, but no matter: I arrived here without hurting someone and tonight will prepare' a dinner for me and it is enough.
The Tuaregs live here with shifts of the shelter for a month or two.
I'm listening to their every Arab and let myself be lulled by the atmosphere. In front of me holding forth the most 'old man who seems to be the boss.
One of the guys would talk about the bike, that they are the first to come up with a bike like that. I am amazed and excited by this little encore.
I promise a ride at all, so I know that you settle for a few pictures on the bike, nothing more. ' In a few seconds' time to go to sleep.
I wrap the sleeping bag. Outside I hear the wind blowing strong and the mountains on my bike up there 'sull'Assekrem, after Algeria, three thousand meters.
Winds against
Strong wind, what makes you lower the helmet and swearing between his teeth, and 'this greeting Algeria.
With 500 km of Tunisia to the shoulder, a sleepless night spent in the saddle, and an empty belly, I come to the border Taleb Larbi.
They are so weak that the customs moments I lay me down to earth. Documents, paperwork, dams, bureaucracy, it seems that this country does not do anything to get me.
And 'all difficult, complicated, exhausting. But I recover and I will open before the Great Eastern Erg, and it 'still wind battered old Land Rover with donkeys plodding linked above, in the old brown djellaba lying on the sand at the edge of the road.
This is so hard to be attached to the handlebars of this old Road King, I think as the sand stings my face. But there is nothing to laugh: I still have 500 km to go before a bed and a shower.
The Algerian Tuareg in the north are different from the deep south, relaxed and free of anti-Western bias, but my fears Muslims are gradually swept away from their open-minded and hospitable, and where the most interesting 'to my bike and my only be on that long road, which is called trans-Saharan Central. This is a true "mother road" of those who liked Keruac, even if the beer is lacking here, the rock 'n roll and some beautiful blonde.
For days I stopped at the edge of this dusty tables long way, between flies and smell of grilled mutton. Dust and heat, rattle old Peugeot van on rough road, while someone puts me in front of a chorba, with the thumb dipped into the pot. In Algeria, there 'this curious tradition that the kids getting stoned in the West. In fact, a little 'I understand them: damn, do they think these types of files off-road tours pussy very fast crossing their village, without even looking at me? A stone, and 'what it takes to make them understand that there are too!
While through El Oued, a bit 'fearful, I notice that some kids collect rocks but then I do not pull them. Maybe I make him laugh a fool alone on an old bike that has nothing to do there own thing. And it all ends with a greeting and a smile. The distances without refueling sometimes exceed 400 km. Often added to the limit but I can always, including the times when there would be the distributor, but it 'out of gas!
The real show for a traveler of the trans-Saharan and 'watch the desert, changing before his eyes: the more' empty I have ever seen, Tademait, to the red and soft to the south of In-Salah, to Tamanrasset, from sand to the bare and dotted with Dolomite peaks.
I remember a sandwich eaten in a small square in the middle of nowhere Casotta, on the crossroads for trans-Saharan Timimoum. Cats lick my tin of tuna, deafening silence, a madam in a green caftan, asks me if I have something to sell, but I have nothing of which to discard, in the small bag tied to the fender. He says "there is no field." It is not 'not the only thing missing here, I think. My guide, a tall thin Tuareg called Moussa, baguette eats and drinks tea with two men with whom he exchanged a few words. Occasionally a truck trailer on the trans-Saharan screams to 35 degrees in the shade, in a small slice of the world where almost everything is missing, but where but 'no one seems to be worried.
And every day my alarm goes off at six and a half to a tea, a baguette and 750 km to do with the fork pointing south.
The wilderness profound changes again. At times it seems the Grand Canyon, with bright red sand, plush, high rock formations, then again becomes flat and desolate. The road is treacherous holes, I had one that sank, and the right shock ever loses oil, while the strap is an ominous creak. Tamanrasset, my goal is approaching while I drive compact, with his head straight, red scarf over his mouth and arms relaxed. The warm wind caresses me as a fon. The bike is low murmurs his speech and leads me through the Algerian desert.
The plateau and Tademait 'a plateau 550 meters on which lies the desert, on which I traveled 600 km. Then drop us off on the esplanade of In-Salah. I rely on those wheels and heavy and massive old two-cylinder.
Tamanrasset
And arriving in Tamanrasset and 'liberation: the road' so broken in some places there 'in the sand. For the rest, potholes in asphalt. Landscapes reminiscent of the Desert of the Tartars by Dino Buzzati. Black rocks, hundreds of meters high that rise from the warm yellow sand, the preconditions that the Hoggar Scalero 'tomorrow.
Now the machines are more and more 'rare, and' the kingdom of truckers, real masters of the trans-Saharan. I meet them up and down ', eat, greet flash. They have grim faces, but I guess that like me. Nod in front of a soup, then a few words exchanged in front of the bike.
Everyone asks "what does it do? How much? "And I," Ehh cheap, Slow, and 'old you see ... "
But giving birth on a skid, and I think:
"Old guys fucking, this bike splits" while the Desert opens in front of me for another day to the south.
At Tam, I was lucky enough to be invited to dinner by Mustafa, who with his wife Rashida prepares us an excellent couscous.
The night passed peacefully to end an evening in which a group makes music Tuareg.
Constant rhythms, psychedelic: the blues of the river Niger. Something that envelops me and not let me go to sleep even though I know that tomorrow will be 'the day the most' hard.
The eyes of one of the most profound singers, nail me to the cushions and carpet.
The Tuareg girls (the Targuie) are free because 'their company' and 'different benefits and females, (a legend says that the women did to men veil of shame, after their defeat in the war with the Tebu).
They have superior rights to inherit 'and choice of husband.
Then our girl gets up smiling, and begins a slow dance, that all men at that time, think it is dedicated to them ...
The Assekrem, Hoggar massif
The climb all'Assekrem, 2900 meters, and 'a challenge than what we know, no street bike has never accepted.
None except my Harley-Davidson.
The track 'uncertain, sandy, often separated and lost.
You choose your own, like life.
At first it looks good, then worsens or you lose, but you must continue, despite the terrible tole-ondulee.
I observe from dolomitic rocks, and seem to smile as when we see an ant struggling with a grain of sand.
The track gradually gets worse as you walk up and start the real problems: broken rocks and sharp, black volcanic rocks as sin.
From 1500 to 2900 meters, around every corner there's a new landscape with red and brown needles, around which the crows and buzzards fly slowly.
You only hear the sound of my engine that pulls in second. Sometimes in the third. Often the first to bail them out.
80 km of beautiful effort, where you scroll around and you think they will never make it.
But suddenly, there we are.
At the top there is a refuge and a small square building.
And 'the retreat of Charles de Foucauld, a Catholic monaco, founder of the Little Brothers of Jesus, who lived his last years here, to the death for murder by the sect of Senusi believed that a French spy.
The atmosphere and 'intimate and difficult to tell: I can just enjoy being able to get here.
Within the shelter to rest, the bike out, which takes your breath away like me.
Inside and 'beautiful carpets, mattresses and oozing ghirbe sheep to keep the water fresh.
The Tuaregs have prepared green tea ritual, drinking three glasses of the glass. They speak Arabic and tight smile.
Who knows' if they understand why 'of my business, on a strange bike, bulky like a huge camel, but no matter: I arrived here without hurting someone and tonight will prepare' a dinner for me and it is enough.
The Tuaregs live here with shifts of the shelter for a month or two.
I'm listening to their every Arab and let myself be lulled by the atmosphere. In front of me holding forth the most 'old man who seems to be the boss.
One of the guys would talk about the bike, that they are the first to come up with a bike like that. I am amazed and excited by this little encore.
I promise a ride at all, so I know that you settle for a few pictures on the bike, nothing more. ' In a few seconds' time to go to sleep.
I wrap the sleeping bag. Outside I hear the wind blowing strong and the mountains on my bike up there 'sull'Assekrem, after Algeria, three thousand meters.
Many thanks, even with the broken English I can get a real feel for what he's achieved.
I like the 'bars - a lot.
I like the rear light and indicators
I like the front mudder..
I like the patina
I like the 'bars - a lot.
I like the rear light and indicators
I like the front mudder..
I like the patina
I like the bars as well. I was wondering if they are Sportster bars. Hard to tell though. Proper M/C handlebars instead of "Look at Me!" handlebars.
PS Thanks for the interpretation Smudger.
Anyone know what those tyres are..?
(Btw, can you get TKC's for 16" wheels)
(Btw, can you get TKC's for 16" wheels
)roddy
Registered user
anybody know the model year of this roadking ? as it's the very thing I plan to get when the Harley years come up
Roddy from his 3%ers page... una Road-King nera del ’98
http://www.threepercenters.it/wp/?page_id=295
http://www.threepercenters.it/wp/?page_id=295
roddy
Registered user
cheers Stray 
"For several years traveling on the best bike in the world: what remains of a Road King-black '98, open exhaust, solo seat, front fender and not always strictly no windshield. "
Google translate is a fantastic tool
"For several years traveling on the best bike in the world: what remains of a Road King-black '98, open exhaust, solo seat, front fender and not always strictly no windshield. "
Google translate is a fantastic tool
Bravo Smudger.
Ha fatto bene !
Ha fatto bene !
