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Before going to the seventieth Monaco Grand Prix last May, I placed some bets on a Web gambling site. I'd never been to Monaco, less than a square mile of rock packed with billionaires and millionaires and, for a few days, home of the planet's premier street-racing event. I'd never gambled on a Formula 1 race. Once I got there, I was psyched. Betting gave me a fresh take on F1's high craziness. It flipped my normal longing to be trackside for the vicarious thrills and shifted my focus elsewhere. To data and money. Patterns and performance. It was like being on a low-grade dopamine high, the neurotransmitter of pleasure being triggered constantly. Even in my sleep, I began having gambling dreams. All around were stimulants: celebrities pursued by paparazzi, stunners in stilettos, VIPs on yachts, more Ferraris than you could count. But all my senses longed for was more data to up the odds of coming out a winner.