His spirit lives on in gym workouts around the world
Les Mills, a New Zealand Olympian who competed across four Games in shot put and discus, died this week at 91, leaving behind a life that refused to settle into a single shape. What began as athletic ambition in the 1960s became a gym opened with his wife in Auckland in 1968, which became a global fitness movement, which became a mayoralty, which became a coaching legacy — each chapter an extension of the same restless drive to build something that outlasts the moment. His name now lives not in monuments but in the rhythmic exertion of millions of people in gyms around the world, moving to music they may not have chosen, in a format they may not know he invented.
- A four-time Olympian and Commonwealth gold medalist, Mills carried the weight of serious athletic achievement before most people consider a second act.
- In 1968, he and his wife Colleen opened a single gym in Auckland — a quiet beginning that contained no obvious sign of what it would become.
- The tension between local roots and global reach was resolved by the next generation: son Phillip and his partner Jackie developed the choreographed, music-driven barbell class format that would spread to gyms on every continent.
- Mills never retreated from public life, serving as Auckland's mayor for eight years while continuing to coach athletes like Beatrice Faumuina to world and Commonwealth titles.
- His legacy lands not as a name on a building but as a living practice — weekly classes still running, still expanding, still reaching people who have never heard of Les Mills the man.
Les Mills, born in Auckland in 1934, died this week at 91 after a life that moved restlessly through sport, business, and public service. Between 1960 and 1972, he competed at four Olympic Games as a shot putter and discus thrower, and at the 1966 Commonwealth Games in Kingston he won gold in the discus — one of five Commonwealth medals he collected across his athletic career.
He did not retire into nostalgia. In 1968, he and his wife Colleen opened a gym on Victoria Street in central Auckland. It was a modest start, but the business grew into something neither the city nor the fitness world had quite seen before. When their son Phillip joined full-time in 1980, working alongside his partner Jackie, the family developed the format that would define the brand globally: choreographed group-exercise classes set to music, built around barbell training with moderate weights and high repetitions. The formula traveled. Gyms in Sydney, London, and New York adopted it. The Les Mills class became a recognizable, replicable product that somehow still felt alive in the room.
Mills moved into public life as the business grew, serving as Auckland's mayor from 1990 to 1998. He kept coaching too, guiding discus thrower Beatrice Faumuina to a world title in 1997 and Commonwealth gold the following year. Honours followed — an MBE in 1973, a Companion of the New Zealand Order of Merit in 2002 — recognitions of a man who understood service in the broadest sense.
Phillip Mills described his father as immensely strong, driven, and deeply caring toward those with less advantage. The legacy he left is not a building but a practice — people moving together in rooms full of strangers, set to music, week after week, in a format that traces back to one gym, one family, and one man who stayed restless his entire life.
Les Mills, the New Zealand shot putter and discus thrower who represented his country at four Olympic Games, died this week at 91. His life spanned the arc of a particular kind of ambition: the athlete who builds something larger than himself, the local figure who becomes global, the man who stayed restless across multiple careers.
Mills was born Leslie Roy Mills in Auckland in 1934. His first life was in sport. Between 1960 and 1972, he competed at four Olympic Games, the kind of sustained international presence that marked him as serious. At the 1966 British Empire and Commonwealth Games in Kingston, Jamaica, he won gold in the discus. Over his athletic career, he collected five Commonwealth Games medals—the hardware of a competitor who showed up and performed when it mattered.
But Mills did not retire into memory. In 1968, he and his wife Colleen opened a gym on Victoria Street in central Auckland. It was a modest beginning—a single location in a city that had no particular reason to expect it would become anything more. What Mills and Colleen built there, however, would eventually reshape how millions of people around the world approached fitness.
The business remained a family enterprise. Their son Phillip joined full-time in 1980 and, working with his partner Jackie, developed the model that would define the brand globally: choreographed group-exercise classes set to music, built around barbell-based weight training using moderate loads and high repetitions. The formula was simple enough to describe and difficult enough to execute well. It worked. Les Mills classes spread across continents. Gyms from Sydney to London to New York adopted the format. The workouts became a recognizable product, standardized and replicable, yet somehow retaining the energy of a live class.
Mills himself moved into public life. He served as mayor of Auckland from 1990 to 1998, a role that kept him visible in the city where his business had taken root. He remained active in coaching, too. He worked with discus thrower Beatrice Faumuina, guiding her to a world title in 1997 and Commonwealth Games gold the following year—proof that his eye for athletic development had not dulled.
The honors accumulated. In 1973, he was appointed a Member of the Order of the British Empire for services to sport. In 2002, he received a Companion of the New Zealand Order of Merit for his work in local government and athletics. These were recognitions of a life spent in public service, though Mills seemed to have understood service broadly: through sport, through business, through the small daily act of helping people move their bodies and feel stronger.
Phillip Mills released a statement describing his father as immensely strong and driven, someone who cared deeply for those with less advantage. "He left a lasting impression on everyone he met," Phillip said, "and his spirit lives on in gym workouts around the world, continuing to help people fall in love with fitness." It was a particular kind of legacy—not a building with his name on it, but a practice, a routine, something people do with their bodies in rooms full of strangers, set to music, week after week. The business that Mills founded more than fifty years ago continues to run through later generations of his family, still expanding, still reaching people who have never heard his name.
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Dad was immensely strong, driven, and always cared deeply for the less advantaged. He left a lasting impression on everyone he met, and his spirit lives on in gym workouts around the world, continuing to help people fall in love with fitness.— Phillip Mills, his son
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
What made the gym work when so many other fitness ventures didn't?
Mills understood something about repetition and community. The classes were choreographed—the same moves, the same music—so people could come back and know what to expect. That's not flashy, but it's reliable.
He was an Olympian. Why not stay in sport?
He did stay in sport, just differently. Coaching, local government, building something that served more people than any individual athletic career could. Maybe he saw that his body had a shelf life, but a business could outlast him.
The music-driven model—was that revolutionary?
It sounds obvious now, but pairing exercise with music, making it choreographed and social rather than solitary and mechanical—that was a shift. It made fitness feel less like punishment and more like something you'd actually want to do.
He was mayor of Auckland. That's a big jump from running a gym.
Not really. Both are about building something that serves a community. The gym was local first—Victoria Street, Auckland. The politics was the same city, same instinct to improve things.
What do you think he'd make of the business now?
Probably satisfied that it's still growing, still in family hands, still helping people. That seemed to matter to him—not the money, but the continuity and the impact.