Until recently, I didn’t think car races were life-threatening, just annoying. I’ve always steered clear of events like Montreal’s Grand Prix and Toronto’s Indy. They seem to invite disaster—and I don’t mean just smash-ups and horrible outfits. There are also the hazardous levels of testosterone invoked by the combination of machines and speed and liquor and money.

Perhaps these are the very things that attract a certain kind of person to car races. It surprised me to find out just how many such people are out there. Of all the popular Montreal summer festivals, the Grand Prix rakes in the most cash for the city. Throngs of Americans and other car-obsessed individuals invade (yes, invade) the city on that mid-June weekend. I, for one, make an effort to get out of town during the Grand Prix—or at least to avoid Crescent Street (the ...