Ken “Mountainman” Fast

Ken ‘Mountainman’ Fast

The Road Scribes of America (TM) are deeply honored to posthoumously induct Ken “Mountainman” Fast as an Honorary Road Scribe of America for his Lifetime Achievement and dedication to Biker Poetry and Storytelling, as well as his website, and hard copy publishing that spans decades. His love and respect for the Biker Lifestyle is only surpassed by the love for his wife and family.
Mountainman requested membership in our fellowship and had this on his bucket list before his untimely death. The Road Scribes of America are deeply grateful to Mountainman and yet saddened to have his pen come to rest,  but we are honored that Ken wanted to write and ride with us in the fellowship of the pen, the wind, and the road. 
Accepting for Mountainman is Connie Fast, who has generously granted the Road Scribes of America permission to publish, and / or post his work on our website and other RSOA (TM) venues to showcase his work. 
Ken “Mountainman” Fast born June 2, 1947 passed on April 11, 2014 and is survived by his wife Connie Fast and their daughter Traci Richardson, his daughter Joanne from a previous marriage, grandson Mathew and great grandchildren Hayden and Mikayla.
Ken Fast –  Road Scribe of America – his vision, his heart, and his soul – will forever remain showcased on our website in dedication and in memory of the man, the myth, the legend known as Mountainman.


*All works presented on this page are Copyrighted by Ken Fast and are released by his wife Connie Fast for the Road Scribes Tribute to Mountainman. No other digital or print reproduction of these works are permitted without expressed permission of Connie Fast*

Written for my love, my wife, my life, Connie 42 years ago.She was sixteen


There is a golden ship with silver in her sails
and a monogram upon her bow
In letters big and proud they call her,
LOVENow every man has his own golden ship
some where out in the yonder blue,
and I know that I found mine
the day, I found you
And when you whisper in my ear
“I love you darling dear”
her silver sails unfurl
to the winds of ecstasy
Then through the stormy nights of trouble and strife
we will watch her sail back, to her base,
upon the sea, of tranquility.
So take my hand,
girl and walk with me,
through life’s ever changing sand,
and we will watch her sail
forever and ever more.
Yes girl ! there is a golden ship
with silver in her sails
and a monogram upon her bow
in letters big and loud they call her,

the Mountainman
© 2000





The Bikers Enchantress

She looked me up an down, then with a frown
She sniffed haughtily the air.
I heard her say, “It would be a nice day,
If that scruffy biker were not there!”
I sat astride, my shiny Harley ride,
and hid the anger behind my smile.
As I looked her over, leering like a gypsy rover
But with all the flair of biker style.
I saw her blink, when I gave her a wink.
“The audacity!” she stuttered
“You biker dudes, are OH! so rude”
“And you are a prude.” under my breath I muttered.
Upon her face a stare, as if I should care.
“So would you like a ride?” said I.
She turned ashen white, really quite a sight.
and she stammered, “Why?”
The reasons I give, are the way I live.
and these are but two that I share.
On the road without a care, the wind in my hair.
And the thrill could be yours, if only you dare.
She smiled just like a child, but I knew she was riled.
for she still looked the same
she sighed” you rejoiced, when we were divorced.”
“what the hell” she whispered “it’s part of the game.”

© Mountainman


For the Sunrise

Out late one night boogying on the bike along River Road. Why River Road? Mainly because it was desolate, a place to get away, a place to feel and think. Why late at night? Because darkness hides many things, sorrow, pain, the hustle of daytime society. Like a kid hiding under a blanket to read by flashlight. The darkness is a blanket, the bike’s headlight is the flashlight. River Road has dips and curves, hollows and hills, also straight, long stretches where the throttle can be turned on to the max. River Road is exhilarating, the rhythm of slow, lean, long, sweeping curves. Excitingly dangerous in narrow; tight, dipping bends. Mellow on the uphill pulls, quiet with engine off on the downhill coasters.

Then comes the Lookout. The Lookout consists of three acres of meadow grass lined on the roadside by large trees, another two acres of parking lot covered in
fine gravel. Mostly used by fishermen when the fish are running, but there was a time when this place hosted some of the best bike gatherings in the country. Back in the days of choppers and “easy rider” movies, back before disco, before the police clued into where we met. Back in the days when Triumphs, Nortons, Harleys and even the odd Jap bike rode together. Thinking about it, it wasn’t all that many years ago. It’s probably just that some of us were too young to grow beards and some girls still wore bras.This was the nostalgic lure of the viewpoint overlooking the river. This night under the full moon, the water shimmered as it danced along the rocky bank ever moving, ever alive with mystery. Shutting the bike down as it rolled up under the big oak was a natural action. The oak must have stood for a couple of hundred years, probably from the days when fur traders and Indians trapped along the river. At that time it was no more than a sapling, now an enormous reminder of history with roots overhanging the eroded river bank. Branches that have shaded more would-be lovers, now protruding lonely in the night sky. Leaning back against the hundreds of initials carved in the tree trunk, inhaling the stuff that’s hazardous to your health, just relaxing.

Lots of things come to mind leaning back against a tree in the middle of a starlit night. Phantoms of the past, dreams for an unsure future, what color to repaint the bike. But train of thought can be broken by the sound of a bike pulling River Road at two a.m. Actually it was more like four bikes by the headlight count. Being able to see but not being seen is an advantage at times. The crunch of gravel and moonlit glint of chrome is the first hint that a fifth bike is rolling in, not going by like the other four. ‘The rider not wearing a helmet was no surprise for a place where there is a helmet law— River Road at night was like a reprieve From Big Brother’s watching eyes. No one wore a helmet here. Watching from the seclusion of the oak as the rider and motorcycle disengaged each other, realizing there was something familiar about her, caused a thought, more like a feeling. Something deep down from a long time ago. Lovely and lithe as she walked toward the oak tree. Her eyes sparkling like the river she walked alongside, lips moist, broke into a smile at the realization that she wasn’t alone. The want to touch her was unbearable, but not knowing who she was, was heartbreaking. “Want to talk?” she asked, her voice coming soft and sultry like a dream. “sure you do,” she went on. “At least I want to talk to you.”

So we talked about bikes and rides. About winters, summers, and years gone by.. Hours’ seemed like only minutes as we relived every good time. Happiness was
around us like a bubble, but a bubble that could be broken by the mere pin prick of a thought. Happiness that could be washed away by one bad incident, like the river washes away the sandy shore. Slowly, ever so slowly, came the gray hazy light of dawn. Her name was Dea Yes, of course I knew her. Her touch was soft, gentle, fingers on cheek brushing away tears of joy. A touch as hot as the sun that burns away the morning fog hanging low over the river. Then the kiss of her sultry lips. A kiss so tender, so light, a kiss to revive the soul of one almost lost. A kiss that slowly rejuvenates the memory to full awareness. Such as the sunrise bursting over the mountain to flood the river valley with hues of crimson red. What do we live for if not for that touch, that kiss, for the wondrous joy of another sunrise. Dea,’ I whispered, Dea, are you here?” Not until she spoke-did I dare open my eyes. There she sat, tears glistening in those beautiful eyes “But where am I? And why?” “Hospital, seventy-six hours after the accident. They didn’t know you’d come out of it, I was so scared they said the helmet gave you a concussion, but other than the head injury you weren’t hurt. Don’t you ever die on me again!” she finished breathlessly. Dea, have we been down to the old River Road site lately?“No,” she smiled. “Well, the first night after I’m out of here let’s go there and wait for the sunrise.” “For the sunrise,” her tear-strained eyes widened, ” sure,” she said, “for the sunrise, why not,” she laughed with relief. ”I know you’re all right when you want to ride River Road for the sunrise!”


© Ken ‘Mountainman Fast’
It’s true they say, “the bike is black magic
If you go to near the results could be tragic”
Tis’ a big shiny two wheeled Bagger, that is true 
But tis’ strange as can be when mixing a brew .” 
The motorcycle run is planned far in advance
Worked and reworked like a fine tuned dance
The day is picked for the most punch
The sunniest day of the whole bunch
Bikers and bikes meet early that morn,
The report of bad weather they scorn,
But behold, the rumble so low
to the party enters the decker slow
On the saddle bags in murals proud,
The words of magic scare the crowd,
Among the painted clouds and thunder bolts,
The words strike like a pair of 45 colts.
Through the crowd so tough, a whisper of fear
“What the hells that one doing here!”
“it’s not his wish of doing you know.
He is our friend, our brother, not our foe.”
Nay! Not the rider, the cycle of doom 
For where it goes comes nothing but gloom.
It is said “if this one is on the bikers run
It than be only luck if you see the sun !”
Far off a lighting flash with the sound of thunder More non believers now began to wonder Up towards the clear blue sky they glance Where sun light now among the clouds does dance
Thus stories are true upon the sunniest day!
Note: The Rainmaker was run over on a rainy night by a little old lady turning left, She said she could not see the two spot lights and the halogen decker head light. Why? “Because says she I am blind in my left eye!” What was salvageable went into a rigid frame chopper.
This is it ?
Kick my ass,
Piss on my boots
Attack my lifestyle,
Even my roots
Cut my hair,
Shave my beard
Call me crazy
call me weird
I’m easy and
I’m mellow
some call me
a damn good fellow.
Call me rough,
call me tough
But never, never
call my bluff.
And this is the way
a biker should die,
On his steel,
a lookin at the sky.
© Mountainman RSOA ™