Partly visible tattoos on the upper arm and forearm of a rider in a full-face helmet sitting on a motorcycle.

Helmeted rider with arm tattoos on a motorcycle

Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A rider in a black full-face helmet with a mirrored visor sits on a cafe racer style motorcycle, wearing a cream t-shirt printed with a skull on a motorbike and the words LIVE FAST DIE YOUNG. Dark tattoos are visible on the upper arm and forearm, with the upper arm piece showing a figure and shading in black and grey tones. The composition is a centred, mid-length shot against a blurred green outdoor background.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Keep your hands out of the rhubarb and sit where I can see you. The summer Bet Ockley bought her first motorcycle from a man who owed the bank, she tied a sprig of holly and two brass bells to the handlebars, because her mother said it would keep the bad luck off, and her mother was always right about the wrong things.

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Death was waiting at the crossroads by the chapel, sitting astride a black cafe racer with a mirrored visor and a headlamp like a cold moon. He had a grin like a gatepost and a jacket with words across the chest, and when he saw the holly he laughed so hard the bells rang. "Race me to the mill and back," Bet said, "and if I win, you leave the Ockleys be for a year." He tipped his helmet. "And if you lose?" "Then you carry the petrol home."

They went down the lane with the hedges smeared green, gravel spitting off the back wheel. At the bend by the quarry he took the inside line so close she could see the bone of his knuckles on the grip. She didn't brake. She shut her eyes for one breath, opened them, and found the road had stretched into a long straight where the sky was turning the colour of marmalade.

She came back first by a length. Death, being a fair sort of thing, pulled up beside her and said the rule was she had to live fast, but nobody had said a word about dying young, which was a different matter entirely. Then he rode off towards the chapel, the bells still jingling in the hedge. That's why the Ockleys live so long, and why you'll grow up sensible. Now fetch me the rhubarb, and mind the bees.

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