Karim Bouchard

My father woke me for the 1998 Japanese Grand Prix and explained pit strategy while I was still half asleep. I remember none of the race, but I remember the urgency in his voice. I have been chasing that feeling on Sunday mornings ever since.

At my place, the projector is large and the group is small enough to hear every theory. Before lights out I draw tyre strategies on a whiteboard; during the race I explain the undercut nobody requested. New fans are welcome—I translate the jargon without making the sport less weird.

I build tiny model cars when I am supposed to be answering email.