Eleven weeks into our trip, Lucy and I made what seemed like a simple decision: let’s swing through Louisiana on our way to the Gulf Coast. New Orleans, Baton Rouge, some good food, different scenery. Easy.
“Turn right in 500 feet,” the GPS announced.
I turned right onto a road that immediately felt wrong. The pavement was cracked and potholed, industrial buildings lined both sides, and there was a distinct lack of anything resembling civilization. Or campgrounds. Or anything we were looking for.
“This doesn’t look right,” Lucy said, checking her phone. “Google Maps says we’re… wait, where are we?”
The road dead-ended at a chain-link fence surrounding what looked like an old warehouse complex. Except it wasn’t abandoned. There were motorcycles. Lots of motorcycles. Harleys, mostly, all parked in neat rows. And people—rough-looking people in leather vests with patches that said “Iron Pickles MC.”
“Iron Pickles?” I said. “What kind of motorcycle gang is named Iron Pickles?”
“The kind we’re about to meet,” Lucy said, pointing.
Three guys were walking toward us. Big guys. The kind of big that suggests regular gym time and possibly a side business in intimidation. The one in front had a full beard, a leather vest covered in patches, and sunglasses that probably cost more than our water pump.
I rolled down the window. “Hey, sorry, wrong turn. GPS sent us—”
“You lost?” The guy’s voice was surprisingly not threatening. More curious.
“Very lost. Looking for the campground off Highway 10?”
“That’s ten miles north. You’re in the Iron Pickles compound. Private property.” He looked at Big Bertha, then back at me. “Nice rig. Montana?”
“Keystone Montana, yeah.”
“Solid choice. I’m Paul. People call me Pickle Paul.” He extended a hand.
I shook it, confused. “Pickle Paul?”
“Long story. You got time?”
—
Turns out, when the leader of a motorcycle gang asks if you have time, the correct answer is “yes.”
Pickle Paul waved over his guys, and they helped us navigate Big Bertha around to a clear spot in the compound where we could park without blocking the bikes. The whole time, I was trying to figure out if we were in danger or just having a weird day.
“So,” Paul said, once we were parked and sitting in camp chairs outside Big Bertha. “You want to know about the name?”
“I’m curious,” I admitted.
Paul cracked open a beer—offered us one, which we accepted because turning down a biker’s beer felt like poor life choices—and settled into his story.
“Back in 2018, I was riding Route 66. Solo trip, no support, just me and my bike from Chicago to LA. This was before I started the Iron Pickles, back when I was just another guy with a Harley and too much time.” He took a long drink. “Anyway, about halfway through Kansas, my bike breaks down. Transmission. Middle of nowhere, no cell service, and the nearest town was thirty miles back.”
“What’d you do?” Lucy asked.
“Started walking. Took everything essential off the bike—tools, water, and this giant jar of pickles I’d bought at a truck stop because they were on sale. Two-gallon jar, forty-nine cents. Couldn’t resist.”
I laughed. “You carried a two-gallon jar of pickles through Kansas?”
“For three days. Ate nothing but pickles. They’re self-contained, they last forever, they’ve got electrolytes, and they don’t need refrigeration. Perfect survival food. By the time I got to town, I’d finished the whole jar and felt amazing. Best I’d ever felt after a crisis.”
“And that’s how you got the name?”
“That’s half of it. The other half is, I started carrying pickles on every ride. Word got around. When I started the MC, guys started calling us the Pickle Crew. Then Iron Pickles. Now it’s official.” He gestured at the warehouse. “Come on, I’ll show you the pickle pantry.”
—
The warehouse had been converted into a combination garage, bar, and living space. Motorcycles in various states of repair lined one wall. A full bar setup occupied the corner. And against the back wall was what could only be described as a shrine to pickles.
Shelves. Dozens of shelves. Filled with pickle jars of every size, brand, and variety you could imagine.
“Dill, bread-and-butter, spicy, half-sour, German-style, Korean-style, you name it,” Paul said proudly. “I’m what you call a pickle connoisseur. They last forever, man. No refrigeration needed if they’re sealed, and even after opening, they’ll stay good for months. Perfect for the RV lifestyle, perfect for long rides, perfect for the apocalypse.”
“How many jars do you have?” Lucy asked.
“Currently? About two hundred. I rotate stock, give them away, and I’m always trying new brands. This isn’t a hoarding thing—it’s a collection.”
“That’s definitely a hoarding thing,” said one of the other bikers, a guy with “Chains” on his vest.
“Your opinion is noted and ignored,” Paul said.
I noticed something in the corner—a setup that looked distinctly out of place in a biker clubhouse. Synthesizers, drum machines, and a laptop with music production software.
“You make music?” I asked.
Paul’s face lit up. “You know cyberpunk? Synthwave? That whole aesthetic?”
“I know some. More into the emo side of things.”
“Emo’s solid. I respect the emotional honesty.” He walked over to the setup. “Started producing about three years ago. Turns out, bikers have a lot of feelings, and electronic music is a great way to process them. You want to hear something?”
He queued up a track—heavy synths, dark bassline, cyberpunk aesthetic mixed with this melancholic melody that wouldn’t have been out of place on a My Chemical Romance album.
“Dude, this is actually good,” I said.
“Thanks. I call it ‘Neon Funeral.’ It’s about losing a friend in a bike accident but also about finding hope in the darkness. Very emo, very cyberpunk.”
Lucy pulled out her phone. “Can I find this on Spotify?”
“Pickle Paul Productions. I’ve got like twelve followers, but they’re dedicated.”
—
We spent the next hour talking music. Paul showed us his collection—classic emo bands like Taking Back Sunday and Dashboard Confessional, but also Carpenter Brut, Perturbator, and other synthwave artists. His guys joined in, and it turned out this motorcycle gang had shockingly sophisticated music taste.
“See, people assume bikers only listen to classic rock,” Paul said. “And don’t get me wrong, I love Lynyrd Skynyrd. But art is art. If it makes you feel something, it’s valid.”
That’s when Big Bertha’s generator kicked off.
It had been running fine all day, powering the AC because Louisiana in October is still 85 degrees with 90% humidity. But suddenly, silence. The distinct hum of the Onan 5500 generator just… stopped.
I went to check it. Fuel was good, oil was good, but when I hit the start button, nothing. Not even a click.
“Generator’s dead,” I called out.
Paul walked over, wiping pickle brine from his fingers. “Onan 5500?”
“Yeah.”
“Those are solid units, but they’ve got a weak spot. Control board likes to fail, especially in humidity.” He looked at his guys. “Chains, grab the multimeter. Tiny, get the toolbox. We’re doing a generator resurrection.”
“You know how to fix these?” I asked.
“Brother, I’ve rebuilt more generators than you’ve had hot meals. Also, I used to be an electrician before the whole motorcycle gang leader thing. Turns out, they pay about the same, but one has better stories.”
—
Paul diagnosed the problem in about fifteen minutes: the control board was fried. The circuit board that manages the generator’s functions had given up, probably from the combination of heat, humidity, and eleven weeks of steady use.
“Bad news: you need a new control board. Good news: I have one,” Paul said.
“You just happen to have an Onan 5500 control board?”
“I have three. Bought them on eBay when they were on sale because I knew eventually I’d need one, or someone I met would need one, and sure enough, here we are.”
He disappeared into the warehouse and came back with a factory-sealed Cummins Onan control board—part number 300-5792. Retail price: probably $400. Paul handed it to me.
“How much?” I asked.
“Trade me for some RV knowledge. I’m thinking about getting a fifth wheel for longer trips. What’s your real-world experience?”
“Deal.”
We spent the next hour swapping the control board. Paul worked efficiently, explaining every step. His guys helped hold flashlights, passed tools, and made jokes about “Pickle Paul’s RV Rescue Service.”
“See, the beautiful thing about generators is they’re actually simple,” Paul said, connecting wires to the new board. “Fuel goes in, engine spins, electricity comes out. When it stops working, it’s usually one of three things: fuel system, ignition, or control electronics. Process of elimination, and you’ll find it every time.”
He finished the installation, I hit the start button, and the generator roared to life. The AC kicked back on inside Big Bertha. Cool air started flowing again.
“You’re a lifesaver,” Lucy said.
“Just a guy with too many spare parts and not enough sense to charge for them,” Paul said. “Plus, now I know a Montana fifth wheel is what I want. That’s worth way more than a control board.”
—
As evening came on, Paul insisted we stay for dinner. The Iron Pickles fired up a massive grill—I’m talking restaurant-grade, probably designed for feeding fifty people. They grilled everything: burgers, hot dogs, chicken, and—of course—pickles.
“Grilled pickles are underrated,” Paul said, demonstrating his technique. “Little bit of oil, high heat, get some char on them. Game changer.”
He was right. Grilled pickles were surprisingly good.
After dinner, Paul brought out his synthesizers and played us a few more tracks. One of his guys, Tiny (who was not tiny), turned out to be a decent singer and did an emo cover of “Welcome to the Black Parade” with Paul’s electronic backing.
“You ever play shows?” I asked.
“Biker bars, mostly. Turns out, leather-clad dudes singing emotional music about feelings goes over better than you’d think. We’re playing in Pensacola next month if you’re still in the area.”
We exchanged contact info, and Paul loaded us up with pickles—about fifteen jars of various types, including his personal favorite, McClure’s Spicy Dill.
“These will outlast your generator, your tires, and possibly your marriage,” he said. “Keep them in the pantry. Perfect road food.”
The next morning, we rolled out of the Iron Pickles compound with a working generator, a new appreciation for pickles, about forty pounds of jarred vegetables, and the strangest but most memorable night of the entire trip.
“Did that actually happen?” Lucy asked as we got back on the highway.
“I have the pickles to prove it,” I said. “Also, I’m now following Pickle Paul Productions on Spotify.”
“Same. That ‘Neon Funeral’ track is legitimately good.”
Big Bertha now had six battle scars: a patched roof, a surviving awning, a replaced tire, mud from Moab, a temporary gravity water system, and a new generator control board installed by a motorcycle gang leader who makes synthwave music and hoards pickles.
We were getting close to the end of our sixty-day trip, and every week brought stranger, better stories than the last.
Sometimes the difference between a disaster and an adventure is taking a wrong turn and meeting a motorcycle gang leader named Pickle Paul who fixes your generator, feeds you grilled pickles, and plays you his synthwave music.
