Standing in Rue du Portier, peering into the garage commandeered by McLaren for the 1968 Monaco Grand Prix, I couldn't help but notice one mechanic who stood out from the rest. It wasn't simply that he seemed to be the only person without a Kiwi accent. This guy had an American drawl and looked as if he had come straight from central casting to fulfil everyone's image of how a player in Formula One really ought to look.
Of average height, slim build and rugged good looks, this man not only seemed to be in charge but also had the respect of those around him. He was totally hands-on, understood how everything worked and, if it didn't, he appeared to know exactly how to fix it. There was an intensity about him; an urgency that said he was there to win this Goddamned motor race. And yet there was time for a wry smile and a deep chuckle when the occasion demanded it. Here, it seemed to me and my wide-eyed mates, was the absolute definition of a true Racer. And so it would prove as, over the years, I had the great privilege of getting to know Tyler James Alexander.
It didn't happen overnight. No Sir. Tyler, an intensely private man, did not suffer fools gladly and possessed a healthy disregard for journalists. You could neither force yourself upon him nor expect social niceties. In some respects he was formidable but, through the gruff exterior, you could sense a tremendous passion that would excuse his abrupt response.
Above all, you were aware that here was someone who had seen it all. Tyler had been with McLaren from its foundation; a credential that said if he was good enough for Bruce then he had to be a grafter, a racer and an all-round top bloke. The man from Massachusetts ticked every box. More than that, he came to define those boxes.
Tyler's colourful and varied racing history is currently being documented in tributes more exhaustive than this one. I had the pleasure of getting to know the story in great detail when asked to work with Tyler on his *autobiography. In more than 400 fascinating and detailed pages, one of the outstanding chapters for me covered the days when McLaren dominated the Can-Am sportscar series in North America.
This was perfect territory for Tyler; a new challenge, superbly engineered race cars, a winning combination - and the whole thing played out more or less in his back yard. In fact, at times it really was within the Alexander family domain.
Three gorgeous orange cars would be airfreighted to the United States. Tyler would arrange to have them trailered to his parents' home in Hingham, where the small team began their adventure with a barbecue. You could imagine Tyler doing everything from buying the steaks - "the best in the Goddamn neighbourhood" - cooking them and doing the washing up, all the while relishing the challenges that lay ahead. As he recalled those days decades later while sitting in a Surrey pub, the infectious sense of enthusiasm had not dimmed in the slightest. He was talking about going racing.
That ethos underpinned everything in his life. Race weekends were about getting the job done. Everyone was expected to pull their weight. In Alexander's eyes, drivers were part of the team; nothing more, nothing less. The absence of adulation and mollycoddling meant a driver error was treated in the same way as a crucial fumble by a mechanic. "We should have won that Goddamn race. Okay, best we get on with the next one."
Inevitably, some drivers breached the seemingly impenetrable personal defences. Apart from Bruce McLaren, of course, Tyler had a great deal of time for Johnny Rutherford, Mario Andretti, Denny Hulme and Dan Gurney; an affection heightened by the manner in which the latter pair drove their socks off and rallied to the team's cause following Bruce's fatal accident in June 1970.
Inevitable, too, that he should warm to Ayrton Senna and his relentless search for perfection. Tyler spoke warmly about a test session at Estoril and a long private chat with the Brazilian while the car was being worked on. "He helped me on numerous occasions when I was having some issues getting something done, which I'd like to think meant the respect went both ways," recalled Alexander. "His ability to get the most out of the car and himself was always more than amazing to us all." Without a hint of self-importance, Tyler would respect Senna's willingness to ask questions and learn.
Interestingly, the reverse was true of Alexander's dealings with Fernando Alonso, a driver whom he rated highly as a performer: "a very, very good race driver". Despite the Spaniard's troubled time at McLaren in 2007, Tyler was sorry to see him go. "I guess he didn't feel he fitted in very well at McLaren and he had some people with him who I thought did not help the matter at all. I wanted to talk to him and try to explain some things about that, but he wouldn't let me."
Apart from shedding an interesting light on Alonso's judgement, Alexander's assessment said everything about his generosity in thinking about his team and how best to win that perpetual next race.
That's all that mattered -- apart from a good glass of red and more chat about racing. To be a part of such wonderful occasions was to share the life of a genuinely modest man who would never dream of referring to himself as a true motor racing legend. But he Goddamn was.
*Tyler Alexander. A Life and Times with McLaren (David Bull Publishing).