Despite being the approximate speed of molasses but less deadly, a 1973 Saab 96 trundling around Boston, Massachusetts will either delight fellow drivers or raise bewildering, rubbernecking confusion. The citizenry — notorious for the cursed appellation that traditionally describes their driving style — never get angry. T
rapped behind the Saab’s puke-yellow flanks, they abstain from raising a hand to the horn. As the Saab pulls to a stoplight, the pedestrians in their heavy wool peacoats saunter past, mouths agape, eyes boggling at this artifact: how can two people fit in that thing? Is it going to take off under its own power? And more importantly: what is it?
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