Finding words to pay tribute to the man we knew every day during his last years is neither an easy nor satisfactory exercise.
We could try to describe his modesty, his kindness, his politeness, his immense knowledge and his no less immense courage, or try to retrace his career of more than 50 years on all the circuits of the world during more than 1200 trips, but all this would necessarily be incomplete and very reductive.
So, we chose three documents that summarize and explain quite well the friend who has just left us.
The first, a text by Jacques Bussillet, tells in detail how Philippe became the journalist that everyone in the motorcycle world subsequently knew.
The second perfectly illustrates his incredible humility, through the stories he tells on the pit-lane.biz forum.
Finally, the last one, a video that he had the pleasure of making with David Dumain, gives an idea of the knowledge he possessed and the modest and courteous character that he was.
Thank you to everyone who told us of their sadness and the esteem they had for Philippe.
Philippe was stingy with confidences, he rarely opened up.
I have a habit: When I call, I often have a paper and pencil on hand. I write everything down. Anyway, one day Philippe calls me and tells me how he became passionate about motorcycles. This text has been in my computer for years, I wanted him to tell me more but we had been around each other so much since our meeting in Imola that he didn't see the point in adding more.
Just for you, Philippe’s love at first sight for motorcycles
« My father was a worker, I found myself on a bottling line in Bercy. I must have been 16, it was hard... We hired at 7 a.m. in the morning, we left at seven in the evening. In principle it rang at 5 o'clock, I was exhausted, I couldn't take it anymore, but a channel stops if a station is missing. The guys told me: “Petiot, we have women and kids to feed, we have to work overtime, so you can't leave your job, you stay with us” and I went out every evening exhausted, you know. can't imagine. »
« My mother was secretary for an association in an office building also dedicated to associations. As it was not far from l'Équipe, towards the Faubourg Montmartre, there was the sports journalists' association, and regularly the secretary said to my mother "We have tickets for volleyball, for football or basketball ”, but that didn’t really appeal to us. And then one day she offered tickets to Montlhéry, so my father and I said “that’s great” and we went there without even knowing what it was. »
« We weren't too interested in the race, but my father took us there, telling us it would be a nice walk in the woods around the circuit. In fact, it was the 10 hours of Montlhéry auto. We took the bus from Place d'Italie direct to the entrance to the circuit, and then we took a footbridge above the track, and there I saw a red racing car pass at an unimaginable speed. Right after, I saw that there was a turn and I said to myself "the guy is crazy, he's going to lose his shit", but I heard "blam blam blam", he retracted the gears and turned suddenly. Before I had time to recover, a white thing passed even faster, I said to myself, the first one had a problem, this one isn't turning, the noise was a little different, but it worked. went “blam blam blam”, and the car did the same. And then there was a green one, a blue one, I learned afterwards that we had seen a Ferrari, a Porsche, a Jaguar and a French one, and I said to my father “let's go see these things up close , it intrigues me ".
« So, instead of walking in the woods, we came back to the middle and then went to see the ring, and then it started to rain. A Jaguar was coming at full speed, it went sideways on the ring, it hit another car then hit the marshals, it left five people dead. I said to myself, this is crazy stuff, it doesn't deserve people getting killed for this. »
(Note: it must have been the accident of October 11, 1964 during the 1000 km of Paris and not the 10 hours as Philippe thinks he remembers, where a Jaguar actually hit an Abarth in front of the stands. The number of deaths is unfortunately accurate, two pilots and three marshals.)
« And then I wanted to see that again, so I asked my mother's friend for tickets again and we went back to Montlhéry with a friend. It was Les Coupes de Paris, there were cars and motorbikes. The motorbikes really impressed me and I said to myself that I had to come back and see it in good conditions. »
« I noticed that there were people in the stands: That's where I wanted to be. There, I saw a poster for the Bol d'Or. I said to myself “I have to be there”, so I bought a Moto Revue and I looked at the entry list, and I said to myself “I have to contact one”. I noticed that in cars the guys had signboards, but on motorbikes, almost none. So I decided to offer myself as a panelist to a team that would make the Bol. I didn't know anyone, but while reading the classified ads, I saw the name of Tchernine who was selling a racing motorcycle, a Velocette. So, I called the number and got his mother, who told me to call back later. At the time she ran a small plumbing store, she sold faucets and shower hoses, her husband was a plumber and they were Russian emigrants. So I called back, got Thierry and asked him if they needed a panelist for the race. He told me yes, and that's how a friend and I found ourselves in the dark freezing on the other side of the ring. Because at the time the signage was done before the chicane on the ring, we had to call the stand with a military telephone to get the information to put on the slate. So I met the Jet's Motors team who were racing the Gus Kuhn Nortons, including Hubert Soumet with whom I remained great friends. »
« And then I wanted to know everything about an engine, so I joined the army to train as a mechanic, and I passed my CAP in mechanics. But I wanted to do motorcycle journalism and that's how it all started. I went to do my first report at the 200 Miles of Imola in 1972. I managed to get accredited and I managed to sell my article to a Belgian newspaper. Afterwards, it came by itself. »
