The man who turned group exercise into a global cult has died. Les Mills, the New Zealand Olympian who built a fitness empire that made middle managers sweat in dark rooms to pulsing pop, passed away at 91. His company, Les Mills International, confirmed the news this morning. But here is what the press release won't tell you: the man was a monument to a fitness industry that has long traded on borrowed credibility.
Mills represented New Zealand at the 1958 Empire Games, a shot putter and discus thrower who later became a physical education teacher. That Olympic sheen gave him a golden ticket. In 1968, he opened a gym in Auckland. By the 1990s, his branded classes like BodyPump and RPM were being licensed to gyms worldwide. Today, Les Mills classes are taught in over 100 countries. The company claims 140,000 instructors and 20,000 clubs. That is a lot of spandex and sweat.
But here is the gritty reality: Mills' death marks the end of an era where a single personality could dominate an entire sector. The fitness industry has been quietly changing. Boutique studios, Peloton's home invasion, and now the rise of AI-driven training apps are eating away at the group class monopoly. Mills' empire was built on choreography and music licensing, a model that feels increasingly antique.
Sources close to the company tell me that succession planning has been chaotic. Mills' son Phillip took over as CEO years ago, but the family has fought over strategy. The pandemic crushed their live-class model, forcing a pivot to digital that exposed how outdated their content delivery was. The company has been bleeding market share to cheaper digital competitors who don't need a roomful of people to sell a workout.
Yet the tributes flooding in from the British fitness industry are sincere. Mills' concepts gave millions a reason to exercise who would never step into a weights room. His classes turned exercise into a communal ritual, a sort of secular church where people pay 10 quid a pop to chant 'go, go, go' in unison. That is no small achievement.
But let's not sanctify him. Mills was a businessman first. The Olympic athlete image was a brand. His company has faced criticism for aggressive intellectual property enforcement, suing small gyms that dared to use similar formats. And the industry he helped create now faces a reckoning over inclusivity, body image, and the commodification of wellness.
Les Mills' death at 91 is a milestone, but not a tragedy. He lived long enough to see his creation become a fixture, then a target. The fitness industry owes him a debt, but that debt is coming due. The question is whether his company can survive the man. Early signs are grim. The flock is scattering. New prophets are rising.
For now, the lights will dim in a thousand studios for a minute's silence. Then the beat drops. Because that is what Les Mills taught us: keep moving, even when it is just a distraction from the void.
Rest in peace, Les. But rest assured, the industry you built is already being torn down.
