Although partially hidden underneath a table cloth and an old comforter, the shape was unmistakable. It was a motorcycle. And not only that..it was a Harley.

Obviously, it wasn’t part of the garage sale, and that piqued Bob’s interest.

“Is this bike for sale?”

The man shrugged. “Well...I don’t rightly see why not. The wife says it’s all got to go. But I’ll warn ya. That bike hadn’t run since I’ve had it. Motor’s seized up. Won’t turn over. Could probably buy yourself a new one with what it’d cost to fix up that old thing.”

Bob nodded patiently. “All the same, how much do you want for it?”

I’m sure they’d give me thirty-five bucks for the metal at the scrap yard. How does that sound?” Bob looked at the rusty old heap. What would his wife say if he brought it home? But still...to a practiced eye, it had potential. Even if it didn’t run, he could get it shined up as a conversation piece. And he could surely sell it again for more than thirty-five dollars. Parts alone would be worth more than that.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll give you thirty-five. Can I pick it up tomorrow?”

Shortly thereafter, the old Harley was occupying space in Bob’s garage. After a few weeks of procrastinating, he finally got around to calling Harley-Davidson, just to see what a few major parts for restoration would run him. He connected with someone on the parts line and asked a few questions.

“Why don’t you give me the serial number,” the dealer said, “and I can look that up for you.”

Bob gave him the number.

“Hold on just a second while I look it up.”

Bob waited on hold, listening to a sixties rock station piped into the receiver. How appropriate. After what seemed an inordinately long time, the parts man returned to the line. Somehow the Harley man sounded different. Strange. Self-conscious. Like something was up.

“Uh, sir..I’m going to have to call you back, okay? Could I get your full name, address, and phone number please?”

Why does he need my name and address? Bob wondered. But then again, what was the harm? It was no big deal. He’d probably end up on some motorcycle list. Bob gave the man what he wanted and hung up.

After a few minutes, however, he found himself getting nervous. He regretted giving the information about himself over the phone. What if the bike had been involved in a crime of some kind...? What if the bike was stolen? Was he in danger of prosecution? Maybe the police were already on their way–or a Hell’s Angel, ready to reclaim his bike...

Bob sweated for a couple of days without hearing back from Harley. But just as his worries were beginning to subside, the phone rang. This time, however, it wasn’t the parts man; Bob found himself talking to a Harley executive. The man seemed overly friendly, making Bob feel even more uneasy.

“Listen, Bob,” said the man, “I want you to do something for me, okay?”

“Ummm. Well I guess.”

“Bob, I want you just to set the receiver down—don’t hang up—and take the seat off your bike and see if anything is written underneath. Would you do that for me, Bob?” The man talked like an air traffic controller bringing in an off-course 737.

Bob grabbed a screwdriver, did as he was told, and returned to the phone. “Yes,” he said, “it does have something written there. It’s engraved, and it says, ‘THE KING.’ Listen, is there some kind of trouble here? What’s this all about?”

There was a moment or two of profound silence on the other end. “Bob, my boss has authorized me to offer you $300,000 for the bike, payable to you immediately. How about it? Do we have a deal?”

Bob was so stunned he could hardly speak. “I-I’ll have to think about it,” he stammered. He hung up the phone and let himself slump slowly to a sitting position on the kitchen floor.

The next day Bob got a call from Jay Leno, that late-night televison talk sultan. Leno explained that he “had a thing about Harleys” and offered Bob $500,000.

“The King,” of course, was none other that Elvis Presley. The serial number had made that clear, and the engraved legend under the seat had removed all doubt. The bike Bob had redeemed from the scrap pile for thirty-five dollars had once been owned by “The King of Rock ‘n Roll.” And it was worth half a million—at the least. After all those years of seeking “The Big Find,” Bob found it. But he hadn’t even recognized what he had.

It goes to show you that truly one man’s junk is another man’s treasure. The value of the motorcycle, of course, wasn’t in the metal or the parts. It didn’t even run! The value had nothing to do with the bike’s beauty, what it was made of, or how well it performed... It was all tied to the fact that it had been owned by “the King.” He had touched it, ridden it, taken pride in it. And the inexplicable value our culture has attached to Elvis Presley—approaching deity status—transferred to his motorcycle. There were people willing to pay a small fortune for the privilege of saying, “I own Elvis Presley’s motorcycle.”

Bob didn’t realize he had something of great value. He hadn’t a clue about the bike’s previous owner. He just saw profit. What he found out, of course, was that ownership was by far the most important truth about that old Harley. In fact ownership was everything.

Is it what we’re made of? Is it based on our job title or economic status? Is it determined by what we can do or how we “perform”?... What gives me a sense of worth and significance is that I belong God. I have been redeemed by God’s own Son, at great suffering and a great price. He owns me...No one argues with the mark of the King.

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