“What the hell isthat?” said Jake, a friend, while we were on a ride this past summer. We were refuelling when a man burbled up to the pumps on a Buell. “Is it homemade?” Jake asked, pointing to a front axle that extended three-quarters of an inch beyond the securing nut. I laughed. “You’d think so,” I said, “but no.” I explained to Jake—who was nine when Buell went bust in 2009—about Erik Buell and his sportbikes that sold at Harley-Davidson dealerships. Jake looked at me, uncomprehendingly. “Are you serious?” Jake said. And it was then that the utter madness of Buell motorcycles dawned on me in a way it hadn’t before.

Erik Buell, at the time parent-company Harley pulled the plug on his eponymous motorcycle company, was hailed in the (predominantly American) motorcycle press as a working-class hero. A standup guy that through grit and determination convinced the mighty Harley-Davidson company (remember, this was pre-2008 global slump Harley) that they should build and distribute through its massive dealer network a sub-brand of radical geometry sportbikes powered by tweaked iterations of its Sportster engine. As I explained this to Jake his look of utter bewilderment remained. “How did it work out?” he asked. “Not well,” I said.

While I never had the opportunity to sit cross-legged in front of Mr. Buell to hear—first hand—one of his sermons, I had many colleagues who returned from Buell press launches espousing the wisdom of the master, particularly his mantra of mass-centralization. “Why did they put a car muffler under the engine,” asked Jake, gesturing to the bottom of the bike in front of us. I began to explain to Jake the concept of moving mass to the center of a vehicle. Jake put up his hand and rolled his eyes. “I get the concept, thanks,” he said. “My question is why did they use acarmuffler?”

Buell’s placement of the muffler beneath the engine was a prescient decision, especially at a time when engineers and designers the world over, captivated by Ducati’s 916, were jamming tailpipes under the tail sections of bikes as B-Wildering as Suzuki’s B-King (look it up but beware: once you’ve seen it, you can’t un-see it) and Yamaha’s even more grotesque MT-01, which fitted a 1,700 cc cruiser V-twin into a stubby, sort-of sportbike chassis. Yamaha called the concept “torque-sports.” “Out-of-sorts” sums it up better.

The peculiarity of Erik Buell’s creations are that they’re an engineer’s laboratory mated to an engine that time forgot. It’s hard to think of a more ill-suited combination in all of transportation design. Maybe a self-driving Mennonite buggy equipped with four-wheel steering, heated and cooled seating, and built-in GPS navigation—all the better to get you to the church on time—echoes what the Buell motorcycle represented.

Which isn’t to say riding a Buell couldn’t be as fun as driving a Mennonite buggy after downing a mickey of Newfoundland Screech. I rode a bunch of them (Buells not buggies) and despite having a multitude of model names, from the saddle they all felt similar—and bizarrely odd. If you’ve ever sat on the hood of a car—while it’s moving—you’ve got a good sense of a Buell’s riding position. Buells are short and stubby. And feel it. But more than anything, a Buell felt homemade, unfinished, which is what endeared him to enthusiasts—Buells were the kind of bikes a resourceful guy might hammer out in his garage if Harley-Davidson stumped for expenses.

In retrospect, it’s hard to believe that Harley thought Buell could be the catalyst for the brand to broaden its appeal. But to understand Harley in its prime is to realize it had the brazen arrogance of boy band at the height of its powers—it couldn’t fathom its reign would end. In my years as a magazine editor, the relationship I had with OEMs I’d describe as having a respectful tension. No brand liked to have its products scrutinized, but most OEM staffers were enthusiasts who had a grudging respect for honest evaluation. Many of those people who gritted their teeth at me a decade ago remain friends today. But my relationship with Harley was different.

Harley viewed itself as beyond criticism. While picking up a press bike on a Friday afternoon, the manager of the fleet accused me of taking the bike solely because I wanted to ride a Harley over the weekend. I looked the man straight in the eye and made a vow. “I promise,” I said, “not to have a moment’s pleasure while riding your motorcycle.” When I returned the bike late the next week, to the same man, I said “remember that promise? I kept it.” After my quip, my magazine’s relationship with Harley flatlined.

Harley, had they wanted a second opinion on Buell, could have solicited its dealer network. When Harley announced Buell’s end, I called dealerships for a story I’d intended to write. I was looking for someone—anyone—who lamented Buell’s demise. Harley dealers were so afraid of alienating the mother ship that no-one would go on the record with an opinion. Off the record, however, dealers cut loose: they hated Buell. For years they’d been saddled with Buells that sat unloved on the showroom floor when they could have sold, had they been able to get them, twice as many traditional Harley models. And dealers, because of their contract with Harley, had to take Buells as part of the deal—there was no option to opt out.

I don’t profess to understand Erik Buell’s mindset, but I’ve wondered if Buell, the man, felt that his innovations justified the haphazard looks of his bikes. And Buell didn’t stand around with his hands in his pockets satisfied with the same-old, same-old. Front brakes had the rotor on the perimeter of the wheel. Oil was carried in the swingarm and fuel in the frame. A Buell motorcycle is a spaceship powered by a steam engine.

I’ve always had a soft-spot for quirky vehicles. The Pacer. The Gremlin. Pontiac’s Aztek. BMW’s clown-shoe Z3 coupe. Buells snuggle right onto this list. And I can easily understand that for a非常specific kind of enthusiast, they are everything they want in a motorcycle.

Most observers, myself included, understood that Harley’s pushrod engine wasn’t an ideal fit for Erik Buell’s rolling laboratory. And it was that, perhaps more than any other factor, that bought the public’s patience with the effort. If only a suitable engine could be found, the thinking went, Buell could break its shackles. When it was announced that Rotax had been commissioned to build a bespoke engine for the Buell 1125R, it was to signal a new age. But the bike was a failure, as much for its outlandishly ugly façade as for its middling—by superbike standards—performance. This time, time had indeed run out for Mr. Buell.