Black and grey realism tattoo of a rider on a motorcycle with the number 13 beneath, on the upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Motorcycle rider and number 13 on upper arm

Realism · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A rider in a leather jacket leans forward on a chopper-style motorcycle, with the front wheel and handlebars rendered in fine detail. Large three-dimensional numerals 1 and 3 sit below and behind the bike, with soft smoky shading fading into the background. The composition wraps across the upper arm, and the work is entirely in black ink and grey tones.

Realism Upper arm Smoke

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The drum at Pelham's Fair smelled of hot oil and wet sawdust, and the crowd above the rail was already talking in that low way people do when they've paid to be frightened. The Norton's tank had been scraped to bare metal by eleven summers of Dad's tinkering and my hands on the bars. Thirteen laps, the board said in red paint. Dad hated that number. He reckoned a rider only needed twelve to prove he could stay on the wall.

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Halfway round the fourth lap the generator coughed and every bulb on the midway went out at once. The drum went dark except for my headlamp, and exhaust smoke rolled up the boards and hung above us like something that wanted to watch. Somebody screamed, then laughed, then someone started clapping in time with the engine. I kept my eyes on the seam where the planks met and let the bike find its own line.

On the ninth lap I heard Dad's voice from the paddock, flat and certain, counting. He had counted every lap of every show since I was six, and he never once looked at the bike, only at the rider. Eight, nine, ten. When the lights came back on I was upright on the wall with both arms raised, and the crowd was on its feet. Dad was already at the rail with the ledger, marking the last number in pencil.

Afterwards he showed me the page. Thirteen lines, each with a time, and beside the last one a single word he'd written in capitals: STAYED. I still keep it folded in my jacket. That's all a number ever was, he said, a place you agree to come back to.