The grim reaper has finally met his match, or rather, his personal trainer. Les Mills, the man who turned exercise into a choreographed spectacle of lycra-clad suffering, has shuffled off this mortal coil at the age of 91. One can only hope that the afterlife has a decent sound system and a floor that doesn't smell of other people's desperation.
Mills, a New Zealander who somehow convinced millions of otherwise sensible people to pay money for the privilege of being shouted at in a dark room, leaves behind a legacy of sweat, spandex, and that peculiar brand of masochism known as BodyPump. The British gym industry, a sector that has long traded in the currency of guilt and overpriced smoothies, has reacted with the sort of earnest grief usually reserved for the death of a monarch.
'Les Mills revolutionised fitness,' said a spokesman for PureGym, pausing to wipe a tear with a sweat-drenched towel. 'Without him, where would we be? Probably still jogging, and with much better knees.'
Indeed, Mills's empire, built on the tenuous premise that jumping up and down to remixed pop songs constitutes a meaningful life activity, transformed the humble gym into a theatre of the absurd. His classes were a symphony of grunts and clanking weights, a ballet of the desperate, a testament to the human capacity for self-improvement through contrived suffering.
But let us not be churlish. The man gave us something to do between meetings, a reason to buy expensive trainers, and a socially acceptable outlet for our primal screams. He made exercise a group activity, which is either a profound insight into human nature or a cynical ploy to sell more classes. Probably both.
The tributes have poured in from all corners of Britain's gym landscape. 'He was the godfather of getting sweaty in front of strangers,' said a spokesperson for David Lloyd Clubs, struggling to maintain a straight face. 'His legacy will live on in every confused newbie who accidentally walks into a BodyCombat class.'
There is, of course, the inevitable tribute video set to 'Eye of the Tiger', played on a loop in gyms across the land. One imagines that Mills, wherever he is now, would approve of the choreography, even if the celestial spin classes lack the requisite motivational shouting.
So raise a protein shake, or better yet, a gin and tonic (the man was 91, for goodness' sake) to Les Mills. He made us fit, he made us sweat, and he made us question our life choices at 7am on a Tuesday. As the old gym saying goes: no pain, no gain. And no Les, no pain. Actually, plenty of pain, but you get the idea.
Goodbye, Les. May your next workout be in a place where the mats are always clean, the music is always on beat, and nobody ever hogs the squat rack.
