"I am the paulrus, coo-coo-coo-choo..." paul sr. Has no previous media experience, but now
The cameras are rolling inside the vast, underlit workshop of Orange County Choppers in upstate new york, and it's barely past 10 in the morning. A visitor to this, perhaps the world's best-known custom-motorcycle shop, can't help but get caught up in the lights, cameras and slow-paced action that is american Chopper. Wandering around in search of a restroom, I stumble on-camera, like one of those publicity-starved yokels in the background of a good Morning america broadcast. To their credit, neither paul teutul sr.-the beefy one with the walrus mustache-nor his son, paul Jr.-the thoughtful, oft-abused one-care whether visitors are caught up in the long-running cable-tv series that's made them the public face of motorcycling in the u.s. And 160 other countries. And why should they? The cameras roll five days per week, 11 months per year, blurring the line between bike shop and sound stage.
"I know our main audience isn't motorcyclists, but the general tv-viewing public," Concedes a friendly and approachable paul sr. "I think what we've done is made motorcycling more accessible." This may sound immodest, but the man has a point. Anyone who's been into motorcycles long enough to remember when choppers meant gangs and drugs rather than rich men's toys would agree. Twenty years ago, riding a chopper meant getting to know the local gendarmes, and not in a, "yes, officer, i'll take two tickets to the policeman's ball" sort of way.
Paul Jr. Prefers designing to riding, and pencils to computers
Ah, but here come the teutuls, a semidysfunctional family of former steel-industry Workers anointed by the cable-tv gods to pick up where early reality series such as Motorcycle Mania left off. The teutuls may not possess the outlaw swagger of Jesse James or the made-for-tv good looks of russ Mitchell, but their weekly series proved an unlikely hit-unlikely because watching bike builders at work wouldn't seem to be a popular viewing choice. But the frequent clashes between the two pauls as they struggle to complete their cartoonish concept bikes are something many families can relate to.
-
Production, however limited, means stockpiles of parts. Owing to popular demand, OCC will
-
Chop shop: paul sr., red-faced as usual, prepares to lay into one of his 80-strong workfor
-
Protest signs outside OCC's new multimillion-dollar factory (below) voice the locals' disa
"I think the family angle, that we can accomplish our goals even with the conflict, is what people can relate to in all those countries where they've never seen a chopper," paul sr. Says. "I don't need encouragement to fight, working with him," his son agrees.
And for the record, the teutuls are proud of their work, regardless of their detractors. "When I was making steel, I would feel so satisfied when I finished a project, and it's the same here," says paul sr. "We're focused on constantly outdoing ourselves, and that's the key that keeps us going."
"We meet people from two years old to 90 who watch our show. It's rewarding to see chopped bicycles and think we've inspired young people to work with their hands instead of doing everything by computer," says paul Jr., who designs his bikes old-school-style, with pencils, paper and brain power.
Stepping outside, we encounter a group of middle-aged fans clustered around the garage door. Like bobby-soxers breathlessly awaiting a glimpse of Ol' blue eyes, some of the men clutch cameras while others hold magazine articles they hope to get autographed. And then one of them speaks, in a Scandinavian accent thicker than an ikea catalog: "We came from Malmo, sweden, to see Orange County," says Olaf garonkuist. "It is the bikes, yeah, cool, but it is the fighting with family we watch every week," confirms fellow swede goran abelson, a custom-hot-rod fanatic who admits to having spent several days hanging around OCC hq.
Even though this unlikely crew of motorcycling ambassadors has made bikers as accessible as the t-shirts, pez dispensers and plush dolls they hawk at their nationwide chain of retail stores, it's worth wondering whether they'll ever gain the respect of motorcyclists. For every soccer mom's prius festooned with a "Mikey rules" bumper sticker, there's a biker with a bellyful of simmering rage. "their bikes don't really run," the haters say. And, "nobody really rides a chopper."
By Mike Seate
Enjoyed this Post? Subscribe to our RSS Feed, or use your favorite social media to recommend us to friends and colleagues!