Orange County Choppers: The Rise and Fall Of A Motorcycle Empire

On the episode of Gears, Grease and Horsepower, we dive into the rise and fall of Orange County Choppers.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:06

In the early 2000s, there were basically two ways to build a successful custom car or motorcycle shop. You could grind like a medieval blacksmith, show up every day for years, sweat into your boots, and earn people's trust one loyal customer at a time. Or you could get a reality TV show and let dramatic close-ups and commercial breaks do the heavy lifting. And oh boy, did option number two take off. It was a full-blown craze with folks like Jesse James, West Coast Customs, and Richard Rawlings building huge careers and even bigger vehicles inside their gloriously over-the-top TV garages. But maybe nobody rode that wave harder or louder than the guys at Orange County Choppers. Their show wasn't just about big, ridiculous bikes. The real secret sauce was the wildly combustible relationship between Paul Tuttle Sr., the shop's resident boss hog, and his son Pauly Jr., the design guy who often had the energy level of a teenager asked to clean the garage. The family's frequent high-explosive arguments became must-watch TV and turned Orange County Choppers into more than a bike shop. The Tuttles became an international brand, Discovery Channel's top-rated show, two video games, an officially licensed cologne, and of course, a Hall of Fame meme. Today on Gears, Grease and Horsepower. How did a gruff steel worker from the Catskills change motorcycles forever? How did he and his son become the biggest thing in reality TV? And why did he nearly lose that son in the process? Today is all about Orange County Choppers, where the bikes are loud and the family meetings are louder. Let's get to it. Paul Sr. and his unmistakable handlebar Fu Manchu have become pretty synonymous with motorcycles. But Orange County Choppers didn't start as some grand chrome empire. It began as a side hustle to Paul's first business, the boldly straightforward Paul's Welding. Paul was born in Yonkers, just outside New York City, in 1949. After a stint in the Merchant Marines during the Vietnam War, he returned to the area and launched his business with essentially the classic starter kit, one pickup truck, and one welding machine. Over time, he was assembling metal construction frames for much of Orange County, New York, and eventually opened a 7,000 square foot warehouse in Rock Tavern, New York. He named it Orange County Iron, a title that says, yes, we do metal. The work was modest, but Senior found it deeply satisfying. While promoting his book Ride of a Lifetime, he reflected, I loved iron work because when you can't take nothing and develop it into something then, then stand back and look at what you did. That's a reward. In other words, turning a pile of not much into something solid you can point at is its own kind of victory. As the business grew, so did Paul's family. His first son, Paul Jr., or Polly, was born in 1974, followed shortly after by three other kids, including the youngest, Mikey, in 1978. At the same time, Sr. was battling drug and alcohol addiction, which continued until 1985, when he finally went to rehab on the advice of his wife. An endorsement of professional help that likely arrived after a long stretch of patience. During this busy and turbulent period, Sr. became more and more interested in bikes. With help from a partner at work, he began tinkering with a 1971 Triumph during off hours. Then, in 1974, he bought his first Harley. Cherry red with yellow flames. Because if you're gonna buy your first Harley, subtlety can wait. He called it the Sunshine Bike, and it became the first bike he fully took apart. It almost didn't survive the learning process. Senior later described his painstaking method. He labeled every single piece and spread them across a table in his basement, with only his pet Great Dane for company. And because every good hands-on project needs one completely avoidable disaster, he also tied the dog to the oil tank, which, as he put it, was not a good idea. The Great Dane chewed a hole in the tank. Fifty-five gallons of oil ended up on the floor, the table went over, and suddenly every motorcycle part was both scattered and thoroughly marinated. So Paul did what any determined person would do. He figured it out, just with a lot more cleanup than planned. In 1995, Senior's first marriage fell apart. In the years that followed, he began to recognize his early failings as a father. One way he tried to reconnect with his children was by building a bike with Pauli in 1999. At the time, Junior was head of the rail shop at Orange County Ironworks. By then, he moved into a bigger facility and renamed again because apparently growth comes with at least one rebrand. It quickly became clear that Paulie had a real gift for visualizing choppers and building them from scratch. Senior recognized the talent, and with it, the outline of another successful business. Sometimes bonding looks like a heartfelt conversation, and sometimes it looks like a custom bike taking shape in the shop. Polly's younger brother, Dan, took over running the metal business, while Senior and Junior split ownership of the new bike shop 8020. Along with his minority stake, Polly became OCC's chief designer and fabricator, meaning he was the one turning raw metal into something worth staring at. Later that year, the Tuttles completed their first bike and debuted it in October 1999 at Daytona's Bike Toberfest. The chopper, started by Senior in his basement, as many sensible projects are, was called True Blue. With a shiny silver and blue paint job, a chromed engine, high handlebars, and a low back, it looked built for attention and got it immediately. TrueBlue was an instant crowd pleaser that helped the Tuttles build a reputation for creating flashy, stylish bikes from scratch, right as the timing turned in their favor. In 2000, the Discovery Channel produced a documentary called Motorcycle Mania about Jesse James and his shop West Coast Choppers. It was a major success and eventually helped lead to Monster Garage, where James and his crew transformed ordinary vehicles into monster machines. With about 1.5 million viewers per episode, it easily outperformed the animal documentaries and home decorating shows that had long dominated the network's lineup. With executives eager for more shows built around tools, deadlines, and questionable sleep schedules, Discovery asked Craig Polygian, producer of Survivor, in an upcoming show called Dirty Jobs, to create a pilot. Since Jesse James was based in California, they decided the new series should set itself apart by following an East Coast chopper shop. After researching builders, Polygian approached Senior with a structured, episodic concept similar to Monster Garage. His idea was for Senior and Polly to visit a motorcycle junkyard each episode, pick out a two-wheeled wreck, and then bring it back to the shop and turn it into something brand new. Senior hated the concept. OCC built choppers from scratch, not from piles of junk, and he refused to budge. Polygian planned to move on to another builder in New Hampshire until the day before filming, when he discovered his second choice had never actually built a bike, while the Orange County crew had built at least one. Recognizing that this was not ideal for a bike building show, Polygian called OCC the morning his crew was set to leave and revised the series concept to fit Senior's requirements. He didn't even inform Discovery at the time. He simply changed the travel arrangements, and the next day, the crew began filming the pilot for American Chopper. Senior tells the story a little differently. In his version, OCC was enthusiastic from the beginning. We started filming, we got a phone call, and they say, You want to do a documentary? And that was something that everybody and their brother wanted, because Jesse James had got it and was successful overnight, and we were thrilled about it. Either way, the Tuddles ended up eclipsing Jesse James in ratings. The pilot for American Chopper debuted in September 2002 and became an immediate hit. The first episode followed Pauli as he fabricated a jet bike modeled after an F-117 stealth fighter. Because if you're going to build a motorcycle, you might as well start with something that sounds classified. Eventually, Senior showed up to yell at Pauli, and a reliable formula was born. As it turns out, all press is good press, is easiest to believe when it comes with purchase orders. Discovery aired a second episode as quickly as possible. Less than four years after it was founded, Orange County Choppers was suddenly the most famous custom bike builder in the country. Discovery soon ordered 27 more episodes of American Chopper, and then several more seasons after that. Over time, the cast expanded to include OCC employees like Vinny DiMartino and Cody Kennelli, along with the youngest Tuttle sibling, Mikey, who didn't know much about bikes but had an uncanny ability to show up right when things got tense between his father and older brother. American Chopper was a pioneer. Today there are dozens of documentary series about businesses and their colorful employees. But at the time, reality TV was mostly competition formats with high production values. The Tuttles, though, broke the mold. In total, the American Chopper franchise and its various spin-offs ran for nearly 250 episodes across 20 plus years, gaining millions of fans and spawning an increasingly improbable lineup of motorcycles. Among the most memorable? A wheelchair chopper commissioned for the Christopher and Dana Reeve Foundation, designed for riders with spinal injuries and painted Superman blue in honor of Reeve's most famous role. There was also the Firebike, a tribute to firefighters, featuring intricate flame motifs and incorporating actual steel from the World Trade Center towers. When I think of Orange County Choppers, I think of the Firebike or the Black Widow. And of course, there were a few lowlights too. A chopper painted to look like the Geico Spokes Gecko bike. And a dragon-themed build inspired by and paid for by the movie Aragon. So no matter how complicated the designs got, every OCC bike was built to run. Which is great, because that's apparently where the requirements ended. On most episodes, Senior or Polly would take the finished bike for a little ceremonial ride, just enough to prove it technically moves under its own power. But not so much that anyone has to find out what happens at mile 201. And a lot of these bikes didn't even have odometers, which is honestly genius. If you can't measure the miles, you can't prove the regret. Despite price tags that started around the mid-40,000 range and could climb to a cool million dollars, because why not? Built to run did not mean built to last. As OCC's full-time salesperson, Michael Birkhaus, put it, I always tell people it's like buying a race car. You drive at 200 miles, something breaks. And you have to appreciate that kind of transparency. Like, congratulations on your six-figure motorcycle. Please enjoy your first 200 miles. After that, it becomes a subscription service. And, shockingly, that reputation didn't take long to spread. Naturally, the Tuttle's fame and success attracted haters as well as fans. Some bikers didn't love their lifestyle being co-opted for reality TV. Totally fair. Other people just thought the bike sucked. Also fair. One of those people was Jay Leno. Leno talked about how the entire electrical system was fused through the taillight. So if the taillight blew, the whole bike would die. Because obviously, the best place to route your entire electrical system is through the one component most likely to get smashed, flicker, or decide it's done with this job. These choppers were designed from an aesthetic perspective, first, foremost, and basically exclusively. OCC didn't build engines themselves. They generally sourced them from Harley Davidson or aftermarket retailers. Except when the engine was part of the gimmick, like when they used a lawnmower engine for a Dixie chopper and advertised it as the world's fastest mower. Because if there's one thing people want from their mower, it's more speed, less safety. A few years back, YouTuber Sean Kerr from Bikes and Beards bought a used OCC chopper called Corporal Punishment for eight grand. It was built for an Army veteran during season three, and in his review he called it by far the worst bike he had ever ridden. Ouch. Because of aesthetic choices, the back end was completely rigid, a hardtail, so the bike had no suspension, not even a spring seat. So every bump in the road gets a direct line to your spine. Like OCC personally wanted you to feel the journey. The front brake was useless, the back brake was too powerful, and it was powered by a bone-stock 80 cubic inch Harley Davidson Evolution V-twin engine, putting out only 62 horsepower and 73 foot pounds of torque. In the mid-2000s, Senior had every reason to keep sipping his I'm thriving thanks smoothie and ignore the Haterade. Business was booming. The show was a hit, so naturally he opened a casual 92,000 square foot headquarters, because nothing says humble motorcycle shop like a building the size of an airport terminal. Meanwhile, the senior Pauli relationship was doing that thing where it pretends to be tense, but is actually a live-action warning label. Part of the Tuttle's appeal was that they weren't quietly plotting like reality TV masterminds. No, they brought their issues directly to the camera, like two people who have never met an inside voice. According to Senior, Polly is just an instigator. He knows where the buttons are and he pushes them like a keyboard on a computer machine, which is a very poetic way of saying, he annoys me on purpose and I take the bait every single time. Producer Stephen Nig added, the hardest part is getting Pauly to work. He's just a lackadaisical guy. In other words, Pauly treated work like it was a pop quiz he didn't study for. On the other hand, Pauly told a journalist at Motorcyclist magazine, I don't need encouragement to fight working with my dad. So, yes, teamwork was thriving, family bonding at its finest. If he watched long enough, it became obvious there were plenty of reasons these two were constantly fighting, including the small detail that they were both hot-headed metal workers from industrial New York. Basically two walking sparks in a shop full of fuel. Their relationship finally hit peak harmony in a 2009 episode of American Chopper, where Senior fired Polly from Orange County Choppers. If you don't know the episode, don't worry. It's the one that became the American Chopper argument meme. You know, the office scene where a chair briefly discovers its true purpose, flying across the room. The argument starts in Senior's cramped office, where he lays into Polly for keeping lazy hours and not following his contract. Polly defends his track record of delivering bikes on time, and both of them keep escalating, like the goal is not to resolve anything, but to achieve maximum decibels. Finally, Polly throws his chair across the office and storms out, which inspires Senior to terminate him. Because nothing says healthy workplace like airborne furniture as a performance review. They continue screaming across the shop floor while the other employees watch in silence, like this is just another Tuesday, and HR has officially given up. Senior kicks over a mini fridge. Polly throws a trash can and then exits the workshop, leaving behind one of America's most cherished pieces of televised adult behavior. That's basically where every shop reality show gets its whole vibe: the big blow-up fight. It's always the same storyline. Someone's yelling, the shop's supposedly about to go under, and two massive guys are screaming at each other right in front of their employees. That moment kind of set the bar for what these shows think they need to deliver. Sadly, none of this aggression was manufactured. Nope. This was 100% artisanal, small batch, locally sourced hostility. As America watched, because of course it did, father and son calmly and rationally decided to sever both their business and personal relationship. You know, like emotionally mature adults. And from there, naturally, things only got more complicated. Because why stop at one dumpster fire when you can build a whole theme park? American Chopper then packed up its drama, sighed dramatically, and moved from the Discovery Channel to its corporate sibling, TLC. Because if there's one thing you do with a volatile father-slash-son situation, it's relocated to a channel famous for calm, well-adjusted families. Then 2009 happened. And shortly after Polly got shown the door, TLC canceled the show completely. Their explanation? The OCC contract required both senior and junior to be part of the series. Translation: We didn't buy a motorcycle show. We bought a two-man shouting package. If one of you is missing, the product is defective. So the original run of American Chopper ended with all the thrilling momentum of a balloon slowly losing air when the season six finale aired on February 11, 2010. Behind the scenes, the fallout from the fight didn't just cause tension, it lovingly set the Tuttle family and business on fire and then argued about whose fault the fire was. So, naturally, they did the healthiest possible thing and went to court. During the legal dispute, father and son didn't speak at all. Senior even missed Polly's wedding, which is honestly an elite-level commitment to the I'm fine actually routine. After Polly's one-year non-compete clause expired, he opened his own custom chopper shop down the road called Paul Jr. Designs, aka OCC, but with a different sign and, allegedly, fewer blood pressure events. And just to really make it feel personal, he was joined later by his younger brother Mikey in a few of the original OCC mechanics. Because if you're going to twist the knife, you might as well sanitize it first. Senior and Junior still weren't speaking, but TLC wasn't exactly crushed by that. TLC didn't want reconciliation, they wanted footage. All they really wanted was a TV show with both tutels in it. Like two angry cats they were determined to force into the same carrier. So less than two months after the series finale aired, TLC announced a sequel, American Chopper Senior vs. Jr. This time the focus was split between Senior's team at Orange County Choppers and Polly's new shop. But without Senior and Polly bickering constantly, the series didn't have the same spark, lasted only two years, and did nothing to heal the family tensions. Shocking. Executive producer Christo Doyle told the New York Post, This is a very bitter situation that runs really deep. At times, I feel like I'm a family therapist and not a producer. Which is a very polite way of saying, I did not go to film school for this. If you think that was the end of these guys being on TV, well, you'd be wrong. This is the 21st century, where anything that can be rebooted will be rebooted, whether it deserves it or not. About a year after the senior vs. Junior debacle, Senior got a new solo show on CMT, simply called Orange County Choppers. The format was similar to American Chopper, but it only ran for one season and was most notable for the monstrous purple and gold chopper OCC built for Shaq. Because when you're trying to prove you're still relevant, obviously the answer is make something that looks like a royal birthday cake on wheels. And there was also a follow-up series with Senior and Mikey called Orange County Choppers American Made, which also ran for one season. Meanwhile, Paul grew his own business in much the same way that Orange County Choppers succeeded. He may not have had his own hit series, but he was still Pauly from American Chopper, and that name recognition, plus his design abilities, helped him land high-profile builds for clients like World of Warcraft, Gears of War, and Ferrari. In 2020, Senior and Polly reunited for a special called American Chopper Last Ride. With the original OCC headquarters set to be demolished, the two joined forces to build their first bite together in over a decade. And no, it wasn't just a cash grab. Pauly said, I was pushing for this for a long time. When you become a father, it makes a difference in the way that you see your own father. Unfortunately, the episode disappointed a lot of fans hoping for a genuine burying of the hatchet. Because Senior spent much of the time ignoring Polly like he'd just asked him to update the family group chat. Still, regarding the time he spent with his dad, Paulie said he walked away feeling like a million bucks. Which is great, because if you can't get emotional closure, at least you can get whatever that is. Thanks to American Chopper, Orange County Choppers didn't just enter the motorcycle world. They shook it up overnight. The Tuttles also became unexpected icons of the documentary-style TV boom. But here's the real question: did that impact actually last? Robert Thompson, a professor of television and pop culture at Syracuse University, says absolutely, and he doesn't mince words. In his view, American Chopper did more for motorcycles than Easy Rider. And honestly, it's hard to argue with his reasoning. For decades, especially through the 70s and 80s, motorcycles in general, and choppers in particular, were often linked to violence and biker gangs. Today, bikes are far more mainstream and widely accepted. An American chopper played a real role in shifting that image. Paul Tuttle Sr. believes so too, echoing the same idea. I think what we've done has made motorcycling more accessible. I come from absolutely no background. I had no role models, no support, and basically I taught myself everything. I think my story is absolutely the story of the American dream. Yeah, I'm with him, and I'll add this: Paul Jr. seems to be doing higher quality work now, and a big reason OCC got a reputation for inconsistent quality may be the pressure of building on a production schedule. There's a real difference between creating something for entertainment and taking the time to build something purely for craftsmanship and long-term quality. In the TV world, production schedules are everything. Production is king. I'm guessing a lot of the drama came from the pressure. Junior probably was thinking, this makes me look bad, or you're making me look like I don't know what I'm doing, because they were being forced to move so fast and cut so many corners. I think most people don't realize that when you watch these shows, from start to finish, building the bikes, or any car you see on TV for that matter, takes at least six months, especially if you're starting from scratch. But the production company might want it done in a month, and that's just not reasonable. So I wouldn't be surprised if a lot of the tension between Paul Sr. and Junior was basically that Sr. is the kind of guy who got where he is by making big, bold promises, like, yeah, we can do that, of course we can. And then Junior, who is the one actually doing the work, is like, what are you talking about? There's no possible way we can do it in that time frame. So the show probably caused a lot of unnecessary stress and pressure to keep up with production schedules. And that is the rise and fall of American Chopper and OCC. A big thank you to our listeners for tuning in to Gears, Grease, and Horsepower. We'll be taking a short break for the summer, but we'll be back in August with season two with more stories, more history, and more horsepower. In the meantime, catch up on past episodes and follow and like the show so you don't miss the season two premiere. Until then, keep the shiny side up, and we'll see you in August.