Jun 9, 2026 · 29 min · 9 segments
Send us Fan Mail On the episode of Gears, Grease and Horsepower, we dive into the rise and fall of Orange County Choppers.
Paul Sr. and his unmistakable handlebar Fu Manchu have become pretty synonymous with motorcycles.
It began as a side hustle to Paul's first business, the boldly straightforward Paul's Welding.
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.
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 Paulie, 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, Senior became more and more interested in bikes.
With help from a partner at work, he began tinkering with a 1971 Triumph during off hours.
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, 55 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.
Paul Sr. and his unmistakable handlebar Fu Manchu have become pretty synonymous with motorcycles.
It began as a side hustle to Paul's first business, the boldly straightforward Paul's Welding.
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.
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 Paulie, 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, Senior became more and more interested in bikes.
With help from a partner at work, he began tinkering with a 1971 Triumph during off hours.
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, 55 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.
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