What getting smashed up on the slopes taught me about product-market fit

I'm not having a midlife crisis, but I have spent the last week sending voice notes. This is something I always thought was socially unacceptable, and a sign of our narcissism-du-jour. But I’m having to do it constantly because I no longer have use of my hands for the next six weeks. For me Easter, was centred around a hairy fall at 60 kilometre an hour, on an icy black run, followed by a 50 metre slide’n’roll, resulting in a broken right shoulder, sprained left hand and general all-round bashing. Et Voila - immobilising sling on my right arm, immobilising splint on my left hand. Surgery incoming.

Fortunately for me, it's nothing they can't fix, and I'm happily in the very good hands of an expert surgeon and a caring albeit rather brusque and thorough husband (gentle, he is not.)

Eating without using your arms/hands is difficult. So, as well as becoming a voice note wanker, I am now also taking on the identity of a Silicon Valley tech-bro as I peruse the meal replacement drink aisle. An aisle which seems to have exploded into a plethora of different flavours and options to explore. Spending so much time and money in this relatively new category piqued my curiosity. I couldn't help looking into its history.

Currently drunk by those who want to optimise their day, nutritionally complete instant meals started out in a very different way. The great-grandaddy of the category was Erbswurst, first developed in 1867. It took the form of a nutritionally dense sausage shape that could be divided and, when mashed with cold water, turned into a hearty pea soup. Quickly adopted by the Prussian army, soldiers survived on this and bread alone. Complete meals in powder, paste or liquid form stayed in their lane in military camps and famine relief camps for a good century or so, until they found their way into the hearts of efficiency-focussed professionals.

Meal replacement drinks are not unique in their journey of massively transcending their original product-market fit.  Last year I gave up driving. Much to the relief of my family, friends and all those who had ever driven with me. The vehicle I bade a tearful farewell to?  A bright yellow Jeep inspired by my two style icons: Cher Horowitz from Clueless (for the Jeep) and Christine Quinn from Selling Sunset (for the colour). It was impractical and I loved it. Critics of 4x4s point to the fact that they have limited genuine use in an urban environment, and when we look at their history, it’s true that they too started far away from the paved driveways they now grace as status symbols. These were vehicles which actually began their story as half-trucks, for use in the military, on farms, and to support extreme long-distance travel over unpredictable and untamed terrain.

I spotted another example of a product that had broken free of its inception when I went into my gym to pause my membership - the treadmill. The treadmill was invented by Sir William Cubitt initially as a form of torture and punishment for prisoners in 1818, and it was taken on and adapted by Victorian workhouses in order to grind grain at scale. It was a large-scale Sisyphean monstrosity which many prisoners/workhouse paupers could use all at once.  This is where the term calling work "the daily grind" apparently comes from. In the 19th century it was deemed too cruel of a device for punishment and was banned in prisons. But it found its renaissance in the 1970s as fitness culture took off and we all started to look for new and innovative ways to punish ourselves more intensely at the start or at the end of the working day.

Lastly, as I was rethinking my footwear (trainers that I can shove my feet into – yes! Boots I have to lace up – no!) a final example came to mind. Doc. Martens. Doc. Martens began in 1945 in Munich when Dr. Klaus Märtens created air-cushioned soles from salvaged rubber to help heal his broken foot (aptly, caused by a skiing accident). The high level of comfort in their design meant they were picked up and marketed to people who spent a long time on their feet during their working day. They were loved by policemen, by postman and by factory workers. This changed when they were embraced by Pete Townsend of The Who, who wore them as a symbol of working-class affinity versus 'the establishment.' This catapulted Doc Martens from their function to serve the working classes to a brand that became a symbol of punk predilections on the mass market.

All these examples have something in common. The core functionality of the product doesn’t change. Instead, it is adopted by those who give it a new meaning. As marketers, we spend a lot of effort trying to get our product-market fit just right. We hone it. We perfect it. We protect it. But sometimes, the secret to success doesn’t only have to come from meeting the needs of your target audience, it can also come from creating a totally new meaning for an audience that might not even be on your radar.