Seriously, after a while the parade of hot new bimbos grows old. They’re all great, but they all have their own demands, their own need to have their buttons and controls manipulated in the one certain way that makes them happy – a requirement older bikes just don’t have.

A new Ducati I had last month wanted me to enter its PIN every seven or eight starts before it would turn over. The BMWs are fast for certain, but their instrument panels are always looking at you in an accusatory way; what did you forget to do this time that she’s going to take revenge for later? The Aprilias never turn down the heat, the new Yamaha R1 insists you grovel on your hands and knees just to ride it… luckily the only bike I own right now is an old R1, 17 years old surprisingly enough, which by most definitions means it’s only eight years away from being vintage. It’s not too soon, then, to start preparing to be one of those old codgers who used to put me to sleep going on about their Norton Commandos and BSA Gold Stars. Rage against what? Why not get a jump on it?