VOGEL CENTER, Mich. (AP) — Kevin Moses was nobody. He wasn’t famous, or popular, or talented. He had few interests or hobbies. Just a regular dude.

“He liked to ride his motorcycle,” said his sister, Karla Moses told the Detroit Free Press. “He didn’t do much else.”

Yet there’s an entire museum dedicated to ordinary Kevin Moses and his unremarkable life.

The Museum of Moses sits in very small, very quiet Vogel Center, a farming community about 20 miles southeast of Cadillac, a place so rural that cellphones don’t work here. It’s in a building next to Karla’s old-fashioned general store.

The core of the museum is her deceased brother’s collection of antique Harley-Davidson motorcycles — which was his passion in life — along with memorabilia such as his Harley wall signs, his Harley knife collection and his unopened Harley beer cans.

But really, it’s a museum of Kevin and his random belongings. There’s a Nazareth 8-track tape on display. A well-worn leather cap. His aunt’s antique stove. A green dish somebody once gave his grandma. And there are photos of Kevin all over the walls. Kevin drinking a beer in the woods. Kevin sitting shirtless on a motorcycle. Kevin and a buddy standing outside somewhere.

The biggest photo of all is a life-size cardboard cutout image of Kevin, which stands in the middle of the room, showing him wearing his trademark thick, gray beard and long stringy hair, and his usual outfit of denim bib overalls. He’s looking straight into the camera through sunglasses, and he’s smoking a big, fat joint.

“We call it ‘the eternal flame,'” said Karla, 59, his only sibling. To her, it perfectly summed up Kevin. “My dad was mad when he saw that. He said, ‘Jesus Christ, you couldn’t find a picture with something else?’ But Kevin had been smoking since high school. His medical marijuana card is lying around here somewhere. It expired a week before he did.”

After her brother died a decade ago at age 55, Karla and her mother opened the museum, which has become an unusual memorial to one man’s unexceptional life. Yet somehow, this museum about nothing, located near nowhere, has drawn thousands of visitors every year since it opened a decade ago.

But the museum is nearing its end. Now that Kevin’s dad recently passed away too, Karla and her mother Joan plan to close down the Museum of Moses at the end of August, sell off everything inside and move to winter-free New Mexico to retire. And the world will lose a rare tribute to the ordinary and the average.

“We’ve kept him alive as long as we think is probably fair to the rest of the world,” Karla said. “And it’s just time for us to move on.”

The cancer started as a little red spot on his neck. Several biopsies later and Kevin was handed a death sentence. Squamous cell carcinoma of the head and neck, the doctors told Kevin, who never smoked cigarettes and rarely drank alcohol.

“They said it was too involved to save him,” Karla said.

Before that, Kevin had spent his life in mid-Michigan, working as a shop manager for Stu’s Electric Motor in Mount Pleasant, his dad’s business. He lived in the apartment out back. And he stored his dozens of Harley-Davidson motorcycles under lock and key at the shop. Whenever he found a rare one for sale, he’d borrow the money from his parents and slowly pay them back. He was so obsessed, he even named his dogs “Harley” and “Davidson.” Otherwise he was, by all accounts, average.

“I don’t want to paint him as a person with a halo around his head, because he wasn’t,” said Joan Moses, his now 84-year-old mom. “He was basically a very good person, but if you crossed him there would be a day of reckoning, a size-13 boot stuck in your butt.”

He wasn’t very sociable. Liked to keep to himself. He had a few friends. But he never married or had kids.

“One of his favorite sayings was, when people would ask him if he was ever married, he always said he’d had a lot of wives, and fortunately none of them were his,” Karla said, laughing.

When he found out he was dying, he didn’t take it well.

“Not well at all,” Karla said. “It was a real mental trip for the first two years, ’cause he know he was going to die and you know it’s like, “Why me? Why me? Why me? Why me?’ There was no answer to that question. Had to be somebody, and it was him. That was the answer to that. At first, you don’t accept it, and then you have to gulp it down.”

For years, he had kept his motorcycles untouched in storage, collecting dust and appreciating in value. He didn’t even tell many people about them for fear someone would steal them. But with death looming, he said to hell with it. Why hoard bikes behind a locked door when he could instead ride them on the open road? Might as well enjoy the things he loved the most.

One by one, he rode them out West, he rode them to Florida and back, he crisscrossed his home state from one end to the other. In his last months, he put his 73-year-old mom in a sidecar and rode 3,000 miles that spring, all over Michigan’s highways, 25 or 50 miles at a time, seeing the state’s countryside with her.