Three years ago, I stood in the middle of Heathrow Terminal 5 with a roll of silver duct tape and a deep sense of personal shame. My ‘indestructible’ polycarbonate carry-on—which I won’t name yet, but you can guess—had split right down the seam because a gate agent decided to treat it like a shot put. I was that person. The person taping their life together in front of a Pret A Manger while businessmen in crisp navy blazers judged me. It was the moment I realized that everything we’re told about ‘modern’ luggage is a lie designed to sell us pastel-colored boxes that belong in a museum, not an overhead bin.
I don’t do this for a living. I work in project management for a firm that builds HVAC systems for hospitals. It’s boring, but it means I spend a lot of time looking at tolerances, stress points, and how things actually hold up when they’re beaten to death. I travel about 40 weeks a year. I’ve owned nine different carry-ons since 2021. Most of them are trash.
The Away ‘Bigger Carry-On’ is the Patagonia vest of luggage
I’m just going to say it: I hate this bag. I know every person in your LinkedIn feed has one. I know they come in cute colors. But the wheels are genuinely terrible. I’ve tracked the rolling resistance on my kitchen tile versus the carpet at O’Hare—yes, I am that guy—and the Away wheels require 30% more ‘push force’ once the bag is over 15lbs. It feels like trying to steer a drunk goat through a crowd.
Pure garbage. Don’t buy it unless you only travel to places with perfectly polished marble floors. If you ever encounter a cobblestone in Europe, you’re done.
The part where I admit I was completely wrong
For a decade, I told everyone that hard-shell luggage was the only way to go. I thought soft-shell bags were for people who still used paper tickets and wore fanny packs. I was wrong. I was embarrassingly, fundamentally wrong. What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently. Hard-shell luggage is a scam for people who want to look cool in Instagram photos.
In 2024, I switched back to a Briggs & Riley Baseline. It’s ugly. It looks like something your grandfather would use to carry his blood pressure medication. But it has an external handle system that means the inside of the bag is actually flat. Do you know how much easier it is to pack when there aren’t two giant metal humps running down the middle of your suitcase? It’s a revelation. I also did a ‘drop test’ from my porch (about 4 feet) with 20lbs of clothes inside. The hard-shell Monos bag I was testing literally dented so badly the zipper wouldn’t move. The Briggs just bounced. Soft-shell absorbs the impact. Hard-shell just breaks.
I genuinely believe that people who buy the Away ‘Aluminum’ series for $600 are statistically more likely to be bad at their jobs. You’re paying for a heavy, dent-prone box because it looks like a Rimowa from twenty feet away.
Speaking of Rimowa, I have a confession. I bought one. The Original Cabin. I know, I know. It costs more than my first car. I wanted to hate it. I wanted to write a scathing paragraph about how it’s a vanity project for tech bros. But the wheels… they’re different. They use a dual-bearing system that feels like the bag is floating. I measured the handle ‘wiggle’—the lateral play in the telescoping handle—and it’s only 3mm. Compare that to the 14mm of wiggle on a standard Monos or July bag. It feels like a tool, not a toy. Is it worth $1,400? Absolutely not. Would I buy it again? Probably. I hate myself for it.
The Handle Wiggle Test (2025 Data)
I’ve started bringing a digital caliper to luggage stores. People stare, but I don’t care. Here is the ‘Handle Slop’ data I’ve collected from 100+ flights and various floor models this year:
- Briggs & Riley Baseline: 2.1mm (The gold standard)
- Rimowa Original: 3.0mm (Excellent)
- Beis The Roller: 11.4mm (Feels like it’s held together by rubber bands)
- Monos Carry-On Plus: 13.8mm (Actually rattling while you walk)
- Travelpro Platinum Elite: 4.5mm (The best value for the money)
Anyway, I was at the airport bar in Denver last month—they have those overpriced pretzels that are basically just salt held together by hope—and I saw a woman struggling with a bag that had a built-in battery. The gate agent told her she had to remove it before she could gate-check it. She didn’t have a screwdriver. She was literally crying while trying to pry it out with a house key. This is why I refuse to recommend any bag with ‘smart’ features. It’s a gimmick that adds 0.5lbs of dead weight and creates a single point of failure that can ruin your entire trip. If you need to charge your phone, buy a $30 Anker battery and put it in your pocket. Don’t build it into your suitcase. It’s stupid.
One more thing: 2-wheel bags are faster than 4-wheel bags. I might be wrong about this, but in my experience, a ‘roller’ (2 wheels) handles uneven terrain and transitions from tile to carpet way better than a ‘spinner’ (4 wheels). Spinners are lazy. They’re for people who want to glide through the terminal like they’re in a music video. Rollers are for people who actually have to catch a connecting flight in 12 minutes.
I’ve spent too much time thinking about this. My wife thinks I have a problem. Maybe I do. But after 40,000 miles this year, I’ve realized that the best luggage isn’t the one that looks the best in the overhead bin. It’s the one you don’t have to think about. It’s the one that doesn’t make a ‘clack-clack-clack’ sound when you walk. It’s the one that doesn’t require duct tape in a London airport.
If you have $700, buy the Briggs & Riley. If you have $300, buy the Travelpro. If you want to look cool, buy whatever the person on TikTok is holding, but don’t come crying to me when your zipper teeth start falling out in Terminal 5.
Why do we keep buying things that are designed to fail? I honestly don’t know the answer to that. I just know I’m never buying another polycarbonate shell as long as I live.
Buy the Travelpro. Never again with the plastic.
