Use it or lose it, and I don't want to lose it
In Woodbridge, Suffolk, a 98-year-old man named Bill Kober begins each day with twenty press-ups and ends it with twenty more — a quiet ritual that has outlasted careers, wars, and decades of ordinary life. His story is less about exceptional discipline than about a simple, ancient truth: the body, like any living thing, responds to use. In an age of elaborate wellness systems, Kober's longevity asks us to consider whether the most profound acts of self-preservation are also the most unglamorous.
- At 98, Bill Kober performs 40 press-ups daily and has recently added a crow pose — a feat of balance and strength that challenges people half his age.
- His body was not sculpted by intention but by decades of manual labor — army service, construction work, factory shifts — and the habits that outlasted all of it.
- NHS guidelines urge adults over 65 to train for strength twice weekly, citing a 30% reduction in early death risk, yet Kober's regimen predates and outpaces any formal prescription.
- He credits good genes above all else, but his daily refusal to stop moving suggests that inheritance alone does not explain what he has built and kept.
- With his sights set on reaching 100, Kober continues to volunteer, craft Viking chess boards, and treat his press-up routine as simply non-negotiable.
Bill Kober wakes up in Woodbridge, Suffolk, and does twenty press-ups before breakfast. Twenty more follow in the evening. He is ninety-eight years old, and the routine is not negotiable — neither is the Pilates, nor the crow pose he recently learned, a balance hold that demands strength most people surrender long before their tenth decade.
Kober did not design himself as a fitness story. He was born in east London in 1928, evacuated to the Cotswolds during the war, and spent his working life in jobs that asked everything of his body — the Army, the building trade, a factory floor, a school bus route in Ilford. His strength was built by labor, not ambition. But somewhere in those decades, he absorbed a lesson he would only name later: the things you use stay sharp.
"Use it or lose it," he says, "and I don't want to lose it." His advice on press-up form is characteristically blunt — back straight, grip your buttocks tight enough that a twenty-pound note wouldn't slip free. The image is absurd and memorable, which may be exactly why he offers it.
The NHS recommends strength training at least twice weekly for adults over sixty-five, noting that regular exercise can reduce the risk of early death by up to thirty percent. Kober has never followed a formal programme. He tried running and disliked it. But the press-ups stuck, and he credits them with keeping his breathing strong.
He has been married for more than seventy-five years, volunteers at a local community centre, and makes marquetry bookmarks and Viking chess boards. When asked the secret to a long life, he deflects toward genetics rather than discipline. It is a humble answer — but perhaps the more honest one is held in the daily act itself: the choice, at ninety-eight, to get down on the floor and begin again.
Bill Kober wakes up in Woodbridge, Suffolk, and does twenty press-ups before breakfast. Twenty more come in the evening. He has done this every single day at ninety-eight years old, and he intends to keep doing it. The routine is not negotiable. Neither is the Pilates, or the crow pose he recently learned—a balance hold that requires strength most people lose long before they reach their tenth decade.
Kober did not set out to become a fitness evangelist. He was born in Mile End, east London, in 1928, evacuated as a child to the Cotswolds during the war, and spent most of his working life moving through jobs that demanded physical labor. Two years in the Army. Decades in the building trade, constructing houses. Twenty-eight years in a factory. The last decade before retirement, he drove a school bus in Ilford. His body was built by work, not by intention. But somewhere along the way, he noticed something: the things you use stay sharp. The things you stop using fade away.
"Only in my later years have I realised that I've got this ability," he said, speaking about the strength that still lives in his arms and chest. "I do it because I'm able to and, as they say, use it or lose it, and I don't want to lose it." The logic is simple. The discipline required to execute it at ninety-eight is not.
Press-ups, the medical literature confirms, build upper body strength and core stability. Over time they improve the ability to perform ordinary tasks—reaching, lifting, standing from a chair. For someone in their tenth decade, that translates to independence. Kober's advice on form is characteristically blunt: keep your back straight, grip your buttocks tight enough that a twenty-pound note would not slip free. The image is absurd and memorable, which may be precisely why he offers it.
The NHS recommends that adults over sixty-five engage in physical activity daily, with strength training at least twice weekly. Regular exercise reduces the risk of coronary heart disease, stroke, and cancer. It can lower the risk of early death by up to thirty percent. Kober has not followed these guidelines religiously. He dabbled in weight training, tried running and disliked it. But the press-ups stuck. "Doing press-ups is what is keeping me breathing well," he said. "I do it until I can't do any more. And then I get up and relax, and that's it."
He has been married to his wife for more than seventy-five years. He volunteers at the Long Shed community centre in Woodbridge. He makes marquetry bookmarks and Viking chess boards. He recently turned ninety-eight and is already thinking about ninety-nine, and one hundred. When asked the secret to longevity, he does not credit discipline or determination. He credits genetics. "The key to long life is getting good genes," he said. "I've had good genes passed down to me, and obviously they're working well." It is a humble answer from someone who has clearly done more than simply inherit luck. But perhaps that is the point: the genes may be the foundation, but the daily choice to use what you have—to do the press-ups, to stay active, to refuse the slow fade—that is the architecture that holds everything up.
Notable Quotes
Only in my later years have I realised that I've got this ability, and so I do it because I'm able to and, as they say, use it or lose it, and I don't want to lose it.— Bill Kober
Doing press-ups is what is keeping me breathing well. I do it until I can't do any more. And then I get up and relax, and that's it.— Bill Kober
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
What made him start doing press-ups at an age when most people are thinking about rest?
He didn't start at ninety-eight. He's been active his whole life—manual labor, building, factory work. The press-ups came later, but they're part of a pattern that never stopped.
So it's not discipline in the dramatic sense. It's just... continuation.
Exactly. He said it himself: use it or lose it. He noticed he could still do them, so he kept doing them. There's no grand philosophy, just a practical observation about how bodies work.
The genetics comment is interesting. He credits good genes but also does forty press-ups a day. Isn't that a contradiction?
Not really. He's saying the genes gave him the capacity. But he's the one choosing to exercise that capacity every morning and evening. Genes load the gun; habit pulls the trigger.
What surprised you most about his story?
That he doesn't seem to think he's doing anything remarkable. He's ninety-eight, he does press-ups, he makes chess boards, he volunteers. It's all just life to him. The remarkable part is how ordinary he makes it sound.
Do you think he'll actually make it to one hundred doing this?
He seems to believe he will. And he's been right about his body so far. But the real question isn't whether he hits one hundred—it's whether the daily practice itself is what's keeping him here at all.