“Well, aren’t you a bit old for this?”

“You want insurance to ride a sports motorcycle at 74?”

“You’re selling the MG because you’re too old to get underneath it anymore?”

“What happens if you drop the bike? Can you pick it up again?”

Jeez. The ageist comments are relentless.

What exactly happened when I turned 70? Nothing particularly dramatic. No sudden loss of interest in motorcycles, no overwhelming desire to buy a cardigan and certainly no urge to start behaving sensibly.

Mind you, it does seem a long time since I was a reporter and road tester on Motor Cycle News, then Editor of Bike magazine. More than 40 years, in fact. Which is a slightly alarming thought.

Of course I’ve made allowances for my age. I’m not entirely stupid, despite what the title of this blog might suggest.

I don’t get involved in the puerile little races that blokes in their 30s and 40s seem to enjoy while commuting in their Audi and BMW company cars. And when some young hotshot blasts past on the latest 200hp superbike, that’s fine by me. Enjoy yourself, mate.

Quite often I catch up at the next bend, where he’s busy demonstrating the remarkable stopping power of modern motorcycle brakes. Personally, I prefer to see where I’m going before getting on the power. It’s all in the police advanced riding manual, Roadcraft, by the way. Give yourself time to react.

These days, I prefer certainty to bravery. Or, as my younger self might have called it, being a bit of a wimp.

I’ve had crashes. Quite a few, actually. And broken bones. They are not fun, and there’s a considerable element of luck involved in how badly you get hurt.

But I prefer to think of all that as experience rather than a reason to stop doing what I love: riding motorcycles and driving old cars.

My current motorcycle is a 1998 Honda VFR800Fi. It replaced a 2002 BMW R1150RS, which eventually proved too big and heavy for me, and a 1963 Velocette Venom, which required rather more fettling than I wanted to do just to keep it running properly.

The Honda is a sports tourer rather than an out-and-out sports bike. I’ve raised the handlebars by an inch – 25mm if you’re feeling metric – and fitted a taller windscreen. Both modifications help my back and neck, which have become increasingly vocal about the treatment they’ve received over the years.

My physiotherapist, whom I visit every fortnight, says my posture is crap. She has also read through the catalogue of injuries sustained during my more enthusiastic motorcycling years.

“Are you over your nutter stage?” she asked, fixing me with a steady gaze. “It’s a miracle you’re still here.”

I suppose she’s right.

But it was fun.

Test riding the latest road bikes on circuits and aerodromes. A bit of racing when weekend reporting assignments allowed. Later, riding and occasionally racing dirt bikes in enduros, motocross and trials.

Legs, knees, ribs, shoulders, collarbones, arms, wrists, fingers and head all took a battering. I appear to have spent a significant part of my working life discovering which bits of the human body are least compatible with the ground.

The good news is that some of the skills learned during those helter-skelter years have survived. I’m nowhere near as fast as I once was, but I’m considerably better at recognising trouble before it happens.

I’ve slowed down. Partly wisdom, partly self-preservation and partly because falling off now involves a much longer recovery period and an increasingly disapproving physiotherapist.

I have absolutely no intention of crashing again. Unfortunately, nobody has informed the rest of the motoring public.

So why stop?

There are practical considerations, of course. Money is one. I’m careful with the pennies, which makes buying and maintaining old vehicles an occasionally interesting exercise in financial self-deception.

I also have a preference for machinery that relies on the person operating it rather than an army of electronic assistants. Traction control, riding modes and other modern gizmos are undoubtedly clever, but I rather enjoy the mechanical connection between rider and machine.

Old bikes, then. Old cars. Occasionally old aeroplanes, because I learned to fly and have a Private Pilot’s Licence. Sometimes old sailing boats, too.

And when I’m not playing with machinery, there’s hiking through the British countryside with my best mate Jack, a terrier whose enthusiasm for life makes mine look positively restrained.

Roughly speaking, that’s what The Vintage Idiot is about.

Old motorcycles, old cars, occasional aeroplanes and sailing boats, journeys worth making, interesting people and a bloke who really ought to know better.

I’m 74. I’ve slowed down, stiffened up and developed an unhealthy relationship with my physiotherapist.

But I haven’t finished yet.

And if anyone tells me I’m too old, they can bloody well come and help me pick the bike up.