Knowing when to stop…

I’ve always been very vocal about being able to let go and not hang onto top jobs that could be better filled by younger people once we reach a certain age, but apparently that message is not universally understood or must have exception. 

In my French hometown, a buddy of my age, has found a way to get elected to a top position at a key regional racing committee. To me 75 years is a very old age, and no longer appropriate to lead effectively, but this guy must have a secret formula to stay young and think young or else, be inhabited by a relentless ego and fully unable to accept himself as he truly is. 

The problem is that kind of “Let me still do it” attitude, prevents younger people from learning, gaining experience and pulling from their vision, audacity and creative spirit, that are part and parcel of youth. 

I feel sorry for that former acquaintance whom I congratulated by the way, but he’s yet to send me a “thank you” note. I guess he still has a few things to learn about handling his emails and refining his communication protocol...

Louis “Loulou” Kneubuhler, 1943-2022

My good friend Loulou Kneubuhler from Spokane passed away on March 31, 2022. Born in France on July 25, 1943, he was 78 years old. He was one of those adventurous Frenchmen who, in the sixties, traveled around the world proselytizing his home country’s ski technique on the heels of the French ski team unstoppable success. 

From his young stomping grounds in St Jean de Maurienne, Savoie (a part of the Alps that isn't really France), where he raced with Jean-Claude Killy as a school boy, Loulou first landed in 1966 at Spout Springs, a tiny Oregon ski area prior to coaching at White Pass near Yakima, and before stopping for good in Spokane during the winter of 1968-69. 

In between, he found time to explore Australia and “sell” a few more turns at Mt. Buffalo in Victoria. Back in Spokane, he eventually opened up a ski repair shop in 1973 that became “Loulou’s of Spokane Ltd”, a trendsetting store featuring the best brands in fashion. 

Obviously, Loulou was also one of my retailers when I was selling ski gear and I'll never forget his inventiveness, wheeling his paperwork and catalogs in carrying box around the Las Vegas ski show, long before luggage on wheels was invented.

After selling his shop a few years ago, Loulou still had the stamina to open up a ski museum at his original ski chalet in Spokane. Around 2014, he would be diagnosed with Parkinson disease that marked the beginning of a long and sad decline. 

I hope there’s plenty of “pow” waiting for you in Heaven, Loulou!

Henri Guibelin, 1946-2021

I remember Henri from the ENH (watchmaking school) in Cluses. I’m not sure if he ever was in my class, but we were the same age and ended up together on the same French Air Force base of Salon de Provence during our 16 month mandatory military service. 

His dad was a custom agent and had been based for a while in Montriond, the village I was raised, before being stationed in nearby Samoëns, also in Haute-Savoie. During my service, I would ride a night train to return to the base and hitchhike to return home. I covered more than 6,000 miles this way. 

One day, I happened to hitchhike with Henri. We probably got a first lift and then a second. It was a young guy driving a white Peugeot 403 sedan. We were driving north on Route Nationale 7 (RN 7), a busy two-lane highway that was the only road from Paris to the Riviera. I was in the front seat and my buddy in the back; in 1968 cars weren’t even equipped with seat-belts. 

We were between Avignon and Orange, when my buddy got a sudden urge to smoke and after putting a cigarette in his mouth, tapped the driver on his right shoulder to offer him one too. Surprised, the driver turned around and, in so doing, lost control of the car that immediately swerved, rolled over and began spinning in the center of the road. 

By the grace of God, no car came across in these few seconds and we ended up in the ditch, my head bloodied because the sun roof was open and I hit the road as the car roof was scratching the road. Except for that, none of us was injured, so we said goodbye to the driver and resumed our trip hitch-hiking for the remaining 250 miles. 

I kept a mark on my skull to this date as a reminder of RN 7’s abrasive asphalt and life kept going on until I heard about Henri’s passing. 

Henri was 74. 

Heartfelt condolences to his wife Colette and his family.