“Wealth,” Epictetus said, “consists not in having great possessions, but in having few wants.”

I’m learning to measure that maxim every time I turn a key: a twelve-year-old Subaru for grocery runs, a 24-horsepower Himalayan for everything that matters. The money I don’t spend on shinier machines buys kilometres, petrol-station espresso, and the sort of dawn vistas you can’t fit in a garage.

A motorcycle enforces simplicity with steel and gravity. Pack only what you want badly enough to muscle through the next mountain pass; leave the rest. The lighter the load, the louder the wind and the clearer the head. On the road, minimalism stops being about owning fewer things and becomes the art of wanting less—and finding, in that smallness, a wider world.

Dalma and I ride bikes overseas. Over our first three fly ‘n’ rides—fly in, rent a bike, roam—our bags dropped kilos each time. Our first trip, two weeks in Bali, had involved two rolltop bags of 20kg each. In Thailand, our two bags combined had come to less than that. The real reason, we concluded over beers one night in a dark restaurant with sticky tables, was that we were becoming more minimalist in our packing.

Western society loves nothing more than to foist unnecessary piles of stuff. More often than I’d like to admit, I find myself pointing at an item on JiffyShit.com and saying, “Hey, honey, maybe we do need a USB desktop coffee warmer”. But as long-term motorcycle travel looms, I’m finding I’m doing it less. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry said Celui qui veut voyager, heureux doit voyager léger (He who would be happy must travel light). On a motorcycle, you are forced to voyager léger.

But then, you don’t travel on motorbikes because you want air conditioning and an easy trip. You want the experience and the sense of freedom. Motorcyclism fosters a greater appreciation for the essentials —fuel range, tyre grip, a dry place to sleep.

With only wind and a thumping single for company, the mind idles low enough to clock the magpies on the fence posts and the smell of wet gum leaves.

Dalma and I have learned to choose experiences over possessions when able to do so. Our motorcycles are Himalayan 411s—dead-simple, air-cooled singles—rather than expensive high-tech ADVs. We buy high-quality, essential riding gear. We crawl open roads on the slow-travel gospel. I learn to do valve checks and maintenance. This approach allows for an immersive and unencumbered experience, free from the distractions of modern technology. Strip the kit, strip the mental clutter; the road pays you back in headspace.

Simplicity on two wheels is a continuous ruthless editing—of luggage, of noise, of excuses. To strip away the superfluous, to hone skills, and to savour the essence of the ride. This leads to a more profound and rewarding motorcycling experience. After all, when that final odometer rolls over and you dismount for the last time, all we keep are the miles and the moments.