I was once part of a team planning, training and fund-raising for an expedition to the South Pole. It was going to be a cracking adventure. I loved the guys I was working with. I was stronger than I had ever been in my life. I would be able to write a fabulous book afterwards. They were exciting times.

But the expedition bank account was empty. We failed to secure enough sponsorship, and the expedition had to be postponed. Season after season the funding deadline came and went. After five years I accepted that this season had been my final chance to get to Antarctica. I withdrew from the expedition. I had failed.

I spent the next week in the pub feeling sorry for myself. We had poured so much time and effort into the expedition, placed our varied lives and ambitions on hold and come together in pursuit of this one dream. And all for nothing. It felt so unfair. Why wouldn't someone give me piles of their hard-earned money so that I could go on a chilly camping holiday? 

More pressingly, what was I going to do with my life now that the beautiful blankness of Antarctica stretching off into the distance had been exchanged for the stark emptiness of my calendar stretching off into the distance?

Here's what I decided, in a welcome moment of clarity at the bottom of an inappropriately-early-in-the-day pint of lager. I was going to stop feeling sorry for myself. And I was going to stop blaming the world. From now on, I was going to take responsibility for my adventures rather than waiting for mystery angel investors to swoop down and make my dreams come true. I was going to see an empty diary as a wonderful opportunity rather than the mark of a loser. And I was going to make stuff happen. Myself. Now.

Six weeks later, instead of hauling a stupidly heavy sledge through the vast, inhospitable wasteland of Antarctica, I began hauling a stupidly heavy cart through the vast, inhospitable wasteland of Arabia instead. 

Ever since I first read about Wilfred Thesiger a dozen years earlier, I had wanted to make a journey of my own into the Empty Quarter desert. After putting it off for so long, I now made the expedition happen in just a month and a half. Disappointment led to simplicity and action. 

I planned to walk across a section of the Empty Quarter desert from Oman to Dubai. It was appealingly romantic in concept and simple (though not easy) in execution. 

The critical act was committing to it. I blocked the dates off in my diary. (See: I was lucky to have an empty diary, not cursed.) 

Second, for a fiery injection of peer pressure and accountability, I told people what I was going to do. Then I recruited someone to come with me. I didn't really know Leon, though we would become good friends. It was enough that Leon's reputation suggested he was competent to handle what the trip demanded, enthusiastic about making it happen and willing to commit despite neither of us knowing what we needed to commit to. (I prefer not to ruminate on why I need to find a new partner for each big expedition and that nobody comes with me twice…)

Finally, we booked our plane tickets. This was a necessary symbolic and financial declaration of intent: a point of no return. 

Throughout this book, I have chosen to advocate a deliberately gung-ho, flippant approach to planning and to life. I've done this because very few people need urging to be more cautious or pessimistic. The internet and your parents are bursting with sensible advice. I don't have anything of much use to add. 

Leon and I prepared, trained and learned as much as we could before our too-soon-but-set-in-stone departure date. It certainly was not perfect preparation, but very few things in life require perfection at first. Perfect is splendid, but good enough is usually good enough. And perfect is the enemy of done. Bodge things from what you already have. Scale back your ambition if you are short of time or money. Ask folk to help. Making do feels good.

You will never simultaneously have sufficient time, money and mojo. All I ever hope for is 'mojo plus one'.

The start of our Empty Quarter expedition was a farce. My favourite ones often are. This is what happens when you get going before you are ready. But the alternative would have seen me still at home two years later, deep in cart research, seeking funding and perfection, and hiding my lack of guts behind excuses. 

Whether you operate in the worlds of Minimal Viable Products, cajoling your kid away from a screen and into a stream, or merely making a crap cart to haul across a hot desert because it makes you feel alive, the principal remains the same. First, commit. Then, begin. Everything else follows.

Our DIY desert adventure was seemingly a world away from the original South Pole journey I was so disappointed to have failed at. There were fewer penguins and less money: two thousand quid of my own cash versus £1,700,000 of corporate sponsorship. There was no glossy website or press release, no social media strategy or 'world first' record. No book deal or swanky speaking gigs.

But the new expedition still contained the core ingredients that had enticed me into committing five years trying to get to Antarctica. A hard challenge with a friend, a journey in the footsteps of a hero in a land I would never otherwise have experienced, a good story and great memories. Leon and I successfully completed the trek and made a film, Into the Empty Quarter, that we were both proud of. 

Do I regret not making it to Antarctica? Hell, yeah! 

Did I enjoy the journey that transpired in its place? Very much. 

You can't always get what you want, sang the Rolling Stones, but if you try – sometimes – you get what you need. If you think that your life would be better by making a change, then why wait? The best time is now.