It Was Meant for Me to Have a Harley

By James Coker

James F. Coker was born in Thomaston, Georgia. He grew up there but left at an early age.
He was in the United States Air Force S.A.C. division. This took him to a number of foreign countries when he was still at a young tender age. But running with experienced well-trained troops taught him more about life that he was even ready for.
Growing, living, and working in an environment of this sort can create loads and loads of true stories. Getting to where Jim is today is but the tip of the proverbial ice berg.
The following is one of those stories. Though based on a true story, some of the additives are intended to enhance the story and give it a bit of luster and a better reading.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456766856

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© 2011 by [James Coker]. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse [04/15/2011]

ISBN: 978-1-4567-6684-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-6685-6 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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James F. Coker was born in Thomaston, Georgia. He grew up there but left at an early age.

He was in the United States Air Force S.A.C. division. This took him to a number of foreign countries when he was still at a young tender age. But running with experienced well-trained troops taught him more about life that he was even ready for.

Growing, living, and working in an environment of this sort can create loads and loads of true stories. Getting to where Jim is today is but the tip of the proverbial ice berg.

The following is one of those stories. Though based on a true story, some of the additives are intended to enhance the story and give it a bit of luster and a better reading.

~ ~ ~

My special thanks to Meeka, a Buckhannon artist and friend, who assisted me in editing my book.

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It’s unreal that right now, as I start this, my black cat, Skipper, wants to climb all over me and my notebook. I told him that he could have a bit of recognition in the story.

Here it is. Oh black cat, would you bring me some luck and please don’t make it bad; for the world is down on me and bad luck is all I’ve had. Now go on, Skipper.

I was born in the little town of Thomaston, Georgia, which is located in about the center of the great state of Georgia. I was born at home to parents who were so poor, but honest and hard working—they didn’t know any other way of life. They, like most people in Thomaston, were textile mill workers.

My dad was a remarkable man. He stood a whole 5 ft. 2 in. tall and was almost that big around. He had a lot of nicknames like Hot, Shorty, Watermelon Man, and more. He was well-liked by everyone for miles around and he loved Harley Davidson motorcycles. I know that his love for them went back as far as the 1940’s. He had an old Army surplus motorcycle that was parked behind our house when we lived near Silvertown, a community of Thomaston and a company village that was owned by the B. F. Goodrich Company.

One day, he and mom were at work in the Martha Mill, their textile mill. I was around ten years old at the time. Several of my friends and I were messing around with the cycle. It was parked on the cradle stand which was located in the middle of the bike. The cycle stand permitted you to rock back and forth from the front to the rear wheel. With all of the kids taking turns at this, someone said Let’s start it. Well, being in charge, I consented. I got on the Harley, switched it on and choked it. After the second kick it started. Telling you verbatim what happened next—well, I can’t . . . The cycle was put in gear and got rocked on the cradle stand. By giving it gas to warm it up, the rear wheel