Here’s a thing: I secretly (but passionately)detest marketing and marketers.
And I’ve just become Enduristan’s Content Growth and Digital Marketing Director.
Make that make sense, right?
As someone who spent some sixteen-ish years on the road living off my bike and fueling my tank by ways of freelance writing, I love stories. I’ve loved stories since I learned to read at the tender age of four; at first, it was all aboutRonja, the Robber’s Daughter, then Jules Verne and the magnificent adventures of Captain Grant, and by the time I was thirteen, Jack Kerouac’sOn the Roadhad become my Bible.
So much so, in fact, that when I actually found myself in Nebraska while doing the Trans-America Trail on my DR650, I just had to stop and stare at the “Ogallalla” sign and found that there was a strange lump in my throat.
Yes, I’mthat much of a romantic, not that I’d ever admit it publicly; and yes, that’s how much I love storytelling—by my twenties, I was working in a newsroom covering politics and culture, later moving on to investigative journalism, freelance writing, and a hell of a lot more.
But that’s also why I have a very—but very—skeptical stance on marketing.
Because marketing ruins everything.
Including adventure riding.
Just think about it: once upon a time, adventure riders were free spirits who’d jump on a bike—any bike—kit it out with whatever they had on hand, from literal equestrian saddlebags to weird handmade luggage contraptions (think Elspeth Beard, way before aluminum motorcycle panniers were even a concept), and ride off into the sunset.
That was the whole point: two wheels, the open road, and an unquenchable thirst to see what’s over the horizon.
Then The Long Way Round came along. And it was a great story.
Except it got hijacked before any of us could so much as look at the maps of Mongolia.
The wild, slightly unhinged, and genuinely authentic story (we can argue about the sequels, but Long Way Roundwas authentic—I'll die on this hill) of two friends setting out to ride around the world on two motorcycles, celebrity status notwithstanding, was awesome.
It was inspiring.
It stirred something in all of us.
The good – Ewan McGregor playing guitar at Crazy Igor’s house in Ukraine, the two of them hanging out with Mongolian herders, camping under the stars; the funny – Charley demonstrating the effects of washboard by ways of jiggling his belly; and even, or perhaps especially, the ugly – Claudio’s BMW giving up the ghost, or the gnarly fight across the icy Siberian rivers.
Sure, Ewan and Charley were sponsored; some might argue they had too much support, gear, or help, butLong Way Round was a movie that left us all longing for adventure – pure, raw, fight-your-way-through-crazy-terrain kind of adventure.
Countless riders got into adventure riding right soon after the last episode aired, chasing that feeling of being so impossibly, so acutely free and alive.
ButLong Way Round also marked a pivotal moment in the adventure space: within just a few years after Ewan and Charley’s epic journey, we found ourselves browsing motorcycle accessory catalogs instead of maps and buying new, large-capacity bikes instead of trusting whatever we had in our garages.
Slowly but surely, adventure riding stopped being a lifestyle, a once-in-a-lifetime journey, or an expedition of varying degrees of madness across a country or a continent.
It became an industry.
BMW came in strong, for obvious reasons; gear, luggage, and aftermarket parts companies soon followed suit. By 2016, Horizons Unlimited and ADV Rider forums—online spaces where riders used to share genuine motorcycle maintenance, route, or border crossing information and advice—were overrun by Facebook groups… where we argued to death about the virtues of MotoZ vs Pirelli tyres, made fun of bikes that had too much luggage or too little power, and looked down on anyone who wasn’t wearing The Newest & Most Rugged Adventure Suit Of the Season.
We swapped quiet helmet time for complex intercom systems, uncertainty for navigation apps, and the awe of seeing the sun set over the peaks of the Andes Mountains for Instagram reel edits.
Without even noticing, we got convinced that we’ll be able to power-slide our Teneres and Desert X’s around sandy corners just like Pol Tarrés by cinematic promo videos. We accepted the notion that we need those auxiliary lights,that pair of heated grips, andthose new ADV pants.
And somewhere along the way, we barely stopped to register that while we’re busy reading the “Top Ten Adventure Jackets of the Season” listicles and watching unboxing videos, we haven’t actually hit the road in a while.
That’s what I mean when I say that marketing ruins everything: when done with nothing but profits in mind, marketing is an insidious sales technique aimed at making you buy things you don’t necessarily need at a price that’s rarely adequate, adding questionable value, if any at all, to your actual adventure.
That’s what I mean when I say I hate marketing: faceless corporate shine with no substance that looks amazing on YouTube Shorts… but leaves your wallet emptier, your adventure route shorter, and, if you can’t quite afford the thing being advertised, makes you feel... a little less of a Real Rider.
I’ve experienced the feeling myself: back in 2013, I was puttering around South America on my no-brand 150cc motorcycle named Blinkin with gear that would make Leatt designers tear out their hair and a luggage setup consisting of a tatty backpack strapped on the back with some bungee cords. Elegant? Absolutely not. Cool? Nope; tragically awkward. Functional? More or less, depending on the Tuesday and the Bolivian washboard.
But that bike and that setup endured nearly two years across the entire South American continent, and I was a happy camper for a long while—until I started noticing the aforementioned BMW GS riders kitted out in shiny Touratech gear.
Now I don’t know why, but the piece of gear they all had that I coveted the most was their tank bags. Unable to afford Touratech – I was still in my pot-noodles-and-roadside-camping era – I came up with a Brilliant Plan.
I strapped my sleeping bag on my tank, and it almost looked like a tank bag (if you weren’t standing close enough).
And just like that, I felt I’d become A Real Adventure Rider.
Let’s face it—we've all had moments like that. Because ofmarketing.
*shudders with horror*
And look, I’m not saying that thestuff is wrong. Heck, Touratech has been making solid aluminum panniers for decades now. Some of my concussions would have been a much, much more serious story if I hadn’t been wearing a Leatt neck brace; custom suspension instead of a crappy stock one? Uh, yes, please.
A lot of the bike mods, gear, and nifty aftermarket gadgets are nothing but awesome. And while we all sometimes go overboard with the upgrades (speaking as someone who’s recently installed TwinPegs on her bike AND is actively loving them), I don’t have beef with ADV moto companies that make great stuff.
I have beef with marketers who are constantly trying to shove stuff down our throats, loudly and aggressively, through all and any means they can.
So how come that exactly a month ago, I found myself in Switzerland meeting David Jenni, the founder of Enduristan, and shaking hands on my new role as the company’s Content Growth and Digital Marketing Director?
Did they make me an offer I couldn’t refuse?
Have I sold my soul?
No and no.
My soul is still intact, thank you very much, and Enduristan didn’t make me a dazzling offer; in fact, I was the one fighting tooth and nail for this position - and beating several candidates probably more worthy of the job than yours truly, if I’m being completely honest.
Because you see, “honest” is the keyword here.
Another one is heart.
David and his team don’t want me to domarketing (*insert another shudder*) in the traditional sense.
They don’t want Very Cool, Very Slick marketing videos and corporate speak; they don’t want in-your-face advertising, loud Black Friday visuals, and “join the cool bros” messaging.
They want stories.
Not mine. Not their own.
Yours.
They want to connect with riders who still care about what’s over the horizon. They want to publish weird and wonderful adventures of someone on a 2006 dirt bike crossing Kenya while photo-documenting wildlife and roadside fixes in a way that’s unique to them. They want to help a 23-year-old female rider live her dream of traveling Mongolia on her first adventure bike.
They want to hear all about that feeling you experience when you roll off a ferry in Morocco and test your clutch plates—and your sanity—on the Erg Chebbi dunes. They want to know how your luggage held up on a particularly gnarly section of the Colorado BDR.
And most of all, they want to empower riders who are quietly making a difference—think small garage owners who will fix your bike for a thanks and a beer because you’re young, feral, and struggling; think riders who’ll go out of their way to help someone get unstuck on a particularly gnarly section of the TET; think folks on ADV Rider who offer free tent space for travelers passing by.
They want to keep ‘em riding. And it isn't a slogan—it's a promise.
And, yes, Enduristan happens to manufacture ridiculously lightweight and shamelessly reliable gear that has your back whether you’re out for a weekend on the Trans Euro Trail or battling the gale-force gusts in the Patagonian pampas.
Which, rather annoyingly, also isn’t a cute marketing trick: over the last couple of years, I’ve personally tested their panniers, duffels, and backpacks in three continents on three different bikes in climates varying from Please Help Me Lord Scorchingto 5 km Above Sea Level Freeze, and…
And it works.
Beautifully.
It looks at rain, storms, rider brain malfunctions (read: involuntary landings), long hauls, dusty trails, crazy temperatures, and rough terrain and says, "Hold my beer," while you happily ride on knowing your gear won’t fail you, no matter how many debatable decisions you make.
That’s the other thing: Enduristan wasn’t conceived in some fancy, investor-funded office; it was born in the Australian outback and the deserts of Northern Africa, when David and his wife Isabel found out the hard way that luggage quality matters—and decided to create their own.
But that’s a story for another time.
Because at the core of it, that’s why I’m here.
Not to Do Marketing, Inc.—but to figure out how to tell the story of a company that’s too humble to brag about the fact that they still care about the adventure and the rider.
The real way.
I’m going to do my best—and I’ll keep those stories coming.
Stay tuned, wherever you ride.
- Egle