My backpack was very sturdy and if I interpreted what Ballistic Nylon Fabric meant correctly, it was bullet proof too. I carried two packs: a big one with a 70 litre capacity and a small 15 litre one which I wore in front to balance the weight of the larger pack on my back. I’d originally purchased the packs for an overseas trek that required something sturdy to endure rocky terrain and the better-not-to-know things that happen when one checks in their luggage on an international flight.

However, the same features that made the packs ideal for previous treks made them a poor choice for this one. My bullet-proof bags were heavy.

Then, six days into the walk, the waist belt on the backpack started to flop around like an untucked shirt. The belt itself was not the issue, but I had lost quite a bit of fat around my waist with all the walking. I got some duct-tape and a thick strip of foam that I attached to the inside of the belt – instant fat, problem solved.

I continued to add foam as necessary to ensure a tight fit that enabled the weight of the pack to be distributed across my hip bones and not my shoulders. I also added strips that I cut from a high-visibility vest to the front and back of the backpacks and lastly, fitted bicycle lights for additional visibility during the pitch-black, pre-dawn walks, Fig. 14.1 gives you the idea.

Fig. 14.1
figure 1

My backpacks and their added contraptions

Full size image

Over time and distance, both packs evolved to become something fully customised, incredibly practical, and deeply unattractive. If I’d been presented with this final version at the shop, I would never have purchased them, but by the time I got to the end of my walk I liked the backpacks even more not only because of how they fit, but for the story they told.

Similarly, in the workplace we might strive for the aspirational beauty of the impersonal over the ugliness of the personal. The pictures of workplaces in glossy architectural magazines preserve aspirational beauty, perhaps to maintain a general appeal before employees have the opportunity to make them their own.

A signpost about making something yours:

figure a

As I was customising and improving my packs, I also wondered how I could make them lighter. The combined weight of both was somewhere between 15 and 20 kg, depending on what food and water I carried and whether my tent was dry or not. Early on I estimated my towel weighed as much as a banana and I could eat a banana. So, goodbye towel.

I didn’t belabour the decision; I rationalised I wasn’t using my towel, after all I was walking alone. Along the same line, I figured once I got further North and reached warmer weather, I could post my heavy winter clothing home. But when the time came to lighten my load, I didn’t post a single item. Instead, I tucked the warm clothes into the least accessible part of my pack and made the decision to carry the same weight with which I started – minus the towel.

Yes, it was unnecessary deadweight for several hundred kilometres, and I went through some phenomenally steep sections where I was reminded of the way gravity pulls down matter. I rationalised what some might say was a dumb decision to carry unnecessary weight as bringing me closer to Sisyphus and his boulder.

It seems absurd if you only focus on the extra effort required to carry dead weight. If instead we consider the task as purposeful, it may result in an experience that delivers greater meaning. Is it better to go with the optimal rational option, or the absurdly meaningful one?

My choice surprised me and pointed to another signpost:

figure b