Les Mills, the New Zealand-born fitness titan who turned group exercise into a global religion, has died at 91. His passing was announced early this morning, and within hours, a chorus of tributes from UK Olympic athletes began to flood social media. But for those of us who have ever grunted through a BodyPump class or wobbled through a BODYBALANCE session, this feels less like a news bulletin and more like the end of an era. Mills was not merely a businessman. He was a cultural architect who reshaped how we think about exercise, community, and the pursuit of physical perfection.
Mills started as a competitive athlete, representing New Zealand in track and field at the 1950 British Empire Games. But his true legacy was built in the 1960s when he opened a small gym in Auckland. From that humble beginning, he and his son Phillip created a franchise that would spread to over 100 countries, with millions of participants each week. The secret? Group workouts set to upbeat music, choreographed with military precision. It was a formula that turned exercise from a solitary chore into a social ritual, complete with its own vocabulary ("pump!" "lunge!") and a near-cultish devotion.
For the British public, Les Mills arrived in the early 2000s, just as gym culture was shifting. The old model of free weights and treadmills was giving way to something more theatrical. Les Mills classes became the stage: dark rooms, pulsing lights, an instructor on a podium shouting encouragement. It was democratic. It was punishing. And it was addictive. Whole social lives were built around the 6pm Friday BODYCOMBAT session. Breakups were processed through tears during BODYFLOW. Careers were discussed in the changing rooms. Mills understood that we needed more than a workout; we needed a tribe.
Olympians have been quick to note his influence. Dame Kelly Holmes tweeted: "He made fitness accessible to everyone. A legend." Sir Chris Hoy called him "a pioneer who inspired millions." These tributes are not merely polite. They recognise that Mills professionalised group fitness, raising standards and creating a pathway for many who might never have considered becoming an instructor. The Les Mills system taught people to teach: not just exercises, but energy. The best instructors are part personal trainer, part cheerleader, part therapist.
Of course, there is a shadow side to this culture of relentless positivity. The emphasis on high-energy, high-impact classes has sometimes been criticised for encouraging overtly aspirational body images. Some argue that the Les Mills ethos, with its branded clothing and choreographed smiles, can feel corporate rather than communal. But even the critics would concede that Mills gave people a release, a place to channel aggression and anxiety. In an increasingly atomised society, he offered a room where strangers could sweat together in rhythmic unison. That is no small thing.
The human cost of his empire? That is harder to calculate. Many instructors work part-time for low pay, their devotion to the brand sometimes exploited by gym chains. But ask a regular who has found solace in a 45-minute BODYATTACK class, and they will tell you it was worth every penny. The pandemic, paradoxically, proved the strength of the community: when studios closed, Les Mills went digital, and the classes continued in living rooms, the instructor a pixelated guide on a screen. The bond held.
Now, the man himself is gone. But his invention, the carefully crafted workout, remains. As the tributes pour in, it is worth remembering that Les Mills was not just a businessman or a coach. He was a mirror reflecting our collective desire to be better, fitter, and more connected. He gave us a beat to move to, and we followed. For 91 years, he lived his own philosophy. Rest now, Les. The final rep is done.
