Monday, September 11th 7:20 AM

Today would turn out to be the day that ended all speculation over omens and placed the footprint firmly on the side of good and sunshine and luck and we'll hear no more on the subject, whatever the next days hold.

I crawled unwillingly from the tent at a little after seven, to splash water on my face, brush my teeth and climb back up to the road to hitch somewhere, to repair or replace the broken clutch lever. We'd had a talk of alternatives, deciding that the worst scenario would probably be a need to hitch all the way back to Munich, have bad luck in all regards and take as long as two days. There was food, Misha had the matches and we hoped for better. She said she was going to sleep as late as possible and wish me back, will me back, if necessary.

There was no traffic this early and, after forty minutes regretting my early crawl from the warmth of the tent, a lone car appeared. The driver did a bit of a double-take at this early morning biker, so suddenly appearing at a curve in the road, then made an instant decision in favor of need over danger---after all, how premeditated could one be at this hour and place--- and stopped. An elderly, very proper and very kind Austrian couple on holiday and I imagine their instinct to pass this disheveled biker was overcome by the obvious isolation of my circumstance. For my part, I was certainly trying to look isolated and pitiful. My very modest Austrian language skills faced their equally piecemeal English, but we made do quite nicely on short phrases, hand language and friendly smiles. They drove a slick and powerfully quiet Audi Quattro and, as with each successive ride, in the closed car I became quickly aware of the overpowering smokiness of my clothes. They drop me off at Linderhof, the nearest small civilization and I catch a ride to Obergammerau, where we'd spent Saturday night and a town large enough to boast a Mercedes and an Audi dealer.

The mechanic at the Audi shop announces a miracle. Scarcely twenty kilometers (about twelve miles) out of town, on the road to Augsburg, on the left hand side of the road, is a Honda motorcycle dealer. Two more hitches and I am able to present the broken pieces of my clutch lever to a mechanic, at a few minutes before ten in the morning. Ten minutes and twenty Deutschmarks later, I'm back on the opposite side of the road with my thumb out, holding a lever that's not specifically for my bike, but meets all the tests of measurement. They are sure it will fit.

Eleven-thirty finds me back at the scene of the crime, the part mounted, the bike running and two very happy campers, striking the tent and packing out. In high spirits and warm sunshine, we head for Neu Schwanstein and the castle of the young nutsy Bavarian king, Ludvig.

By four in the afternoon, we round a curve and there it is, a fairy-tale castle mounted on the slope above its lake, a confection of turrets, inspired in part by the young king's devotion to the music of Richard Wagner. The tour proves his devotion to Wagner, whom he supported financially until his early and unexpected death, which was really a murder, but that's another story. Only fifteen of the rooms of the castle are open, those finished before he died and they are beautifully decorated with murals, mostly attributable to the operas of Wagner. They call him mad, but it seems this young king's only fault was to spend his time building a castle, rather than warring among his neighbors. He also refused to marry a designated German princess, but all in all, he seems to have been quite a harmless fellow. At any rate, a hundred years later, a young Walt Disney would find in this castle, the model for his Enchanted Castle at Disneyland. In other times, they'd have called Disney "mad" as well.

The twilight roads in the general direction of St. Moritz, find us pointing out one incredible view after another, as light changes constantly and the road opens new vistas. Schloss Fernsteinsee promises "romantic camping" and we set up, high in the Swiss Alps at a crystal lake, that morning will find shrouded in fog.

Tuesday, September 12th 9AM

Breakfast at the Schloss, as the early morning fog burns off, a huge affair of eggs, ham, croissants and several pots of coffee. Log beams, heads of animals, polished crystal and heavy nickelwear service on crisp linen, makes this feel more like a Glacier Park hotel than a campground, but it's both. Those on a slightly less stringent budget, have spent the night in the thirty or forty rooms that overlook the lake and take their breakfast at a huge spread, set up in the scarlet-carpeted dining room. We write a bit, then dawdle over coffee and, by the time we're finished loading the bike, it's nearly noon and we ride into an afternoon of increasing cold and cloudiness on the climb to St. Moritz.