Don’t link Sir Stirling with those sprightly old folk who have silly accidents, like slipping over in the bath. This incredible man is made of sterner stuff

Sir Stirling Moss outperforms Superman, doesn’t he? Cheeky little blighters think I’m ancient enough, but young Stirling got his driving licence just 19 days after I was born. He was racing before I could talk. He is 80 years old.

Don’t link him with those sprightly old folk who have silly accidents, like slipping over in the bath. One elderly chap I read about in my newspaper last year – and I swear the story went exactly like this – had modified the mechanism of his ‘lift-you-up’ armchair so that it could help him more efficiently to the standing position. He got the specification slightly wrong, unfortunately, so that when he tested the thing it catapulted him across the room to his death. It seemed tragic yet curiously impressive.

Usually, these disasters arise from less dramatic mishaps. My great aunt was a teetotal, quiet, little old lady of Stirling’s present age when she walked to her local off-licence to buy a bottle of whisky. She wanted to offer her friends a drink during their weekly card-playing evening at her house. She slipped over on the way home, breaking the bottle and her hip. Sprawled, immobilised, out cold and stinking of booze, my poor relative was given a wide berth by passers-by for hours. Happily, she recovered completely.

The incredible Sir Stirling really is made of sterner stuff. His ghastly fall was no silly accident, but he dropped three floors, down his own lift shaft, to the concrete base. I can’t stop thinking about the horror of those moments which, surely, would have been enough to kill ordinary mortals instantly. Sir Stirling didn’t even pass out. Retaining the clarity of a cool racing ace’s mind, even as he fell, his actions minimised his injuries: ‘It was a long way down,’ he told me, four days later.

By then, his big worry was whether he’d be fit enough to take Lady Moss to Singapore for their 30th wedding anniversary, booked for April. Far from giving in, he’s apparently bouncing back as usual. He’s probably still planning to race his Osca this season. That’s no joke, either. We are right to be in awe of this extraordinary man.

I recall something he once said, relating to age and changing times. Were he 17 years old now, Sir Stirling insisted, he would not go motor racing: ‘There’s too much competition, boy!’ Did he mean it? I’ll never know. There was only an enigmatic smile.

Joking or not, I imagine most red-blooded 17-year-olds see things differently. I’ll bet loads of them think like racers, nurturing a burning ambition to push today’s F1 superstars off their perches. That’s where any self-respecting racing teenager should want to be but, probably because of my own age, I’m beginning to see Sir Stirling’s point. I admire our top F1 drivers enormously and I shall be fascinated, watching every second of the action as Hamilton, Button, Vettel and co embark on the World Championship chase.

Has there ever been a more gripping season in prospect? With this level of competition, however, I don’t envy them one little bit now. It takes fantastic skill and superhuman fitness to drive a modern F1 car flat-out for the duration of a Grand Prix, and hundredths of a second make all the difference on every single lap. The machines are so complex that even the teams themselves don’t seem to be quite sure of what gives one driver-and-car combination the edge on any particular weekend.

There are many reasons for going into motor racing – the very worst being that it seems a good way to make your fame and fortune. I reckon the best is that you love driving and want to stretch great cars to their ultimate limit. A few months ago, I found myself conned into giving an after-dinner speech, based mainly on our chosen sport, for my old school’s Sixth Form. It was, of course, a terrifying ordeal. It helped that I was able to quote Sir Stirling Moss as a constantly fine example to us all, including his view that he wouldn’t even try to go motor racing today.

My advice to today’s young dreamers who see themselves flashing across finish lines to the swish of a chequered flag was to forget F1 and modern racing cars altogether. You should leave this place, I told them, and make a pile of money first. They all cheered like mad. When you’ve done that, I went on, you should get into historic racing. It’s much more fun, you see.