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. Trapped 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?

"I was driving around Cambridge soon after I got it," said Charles Tao, the affable, fast-talking, enthusiastic 30-year old owner of this fine Swedish machine. "All of a sudden, I hear this guy yell from the sidewalk, 'two-stroke?' I yelled back, 'V4!' He gave me a thumbs up."

Charles bought this particular 1973 Saab 96 last October from a retired gentleman on the New Hampshire coast, who had put 500 miles on it before deciding to spend his retirement unfettered by the burden of Saab restoration. When he found it, it had just 85,000 miles. "This is actually the lowest mileage car I've ever bought," said Charles. His 1995 Saab 9000 Aero, whose Stage 2 turbo kit puts down 280 horsepower and has around 225,000 miles, was purchased just in time for Saab to implode. He doesn't drive the 9000 much, fearing that he may torque-steer across Kenmore Square and spark a riot. Instead, he drives the 96 as a city car. It's worth noting that from his apartment on Cambridge Ave he can also walk to work.

He bought the 96 for $6,200, a price he admitted was high -- but the car had barely any rust. Upon liberating it from the Granite State he promptly spent $1000 on parts and labor for a transmission mount. There were only three new-old stock mounts left in the country. Now, there are two.

Behind Charles's apartment the 96 stared at us wide-eyed and pucker-mouthed, like a Scandinavian Edsel, like Zooey Deschanel blowing raspberries. Quirkiness in spades! It kind of looks like a derpy puppy, Charles observed.

We counted the number of Saab logos: 13 on the outside, including the mud flaps and the locking gas cap -- a figure that nearly rivals the Shelby Raptor for brand saturation.

Heater is surprisingly effective. Note handy-dandy shift pattern infographic. Blake Z. Rong

We climbed into a cockpit so intimate we suspect Saab's customers often ended up dating their salesmen. The front windshield is close enough to be breathed upon, like being inside a Disneyland ride and a beach ball at the same time. Unsurprisingly, visibility is excellent. Saab 96 buyers were nothing if not discerning, and the well-trimmed interior certainly provided: leather door covers are the texture and color of Gideon Bibles. The headliner is pale and clean, its sagginess thwarted by coat buttons. Both thin pillars are lined in thin white plastic that crinkled like homemade French fries. Backseat passengers sit on stubbly brown vinyl and enjoy such luxuriate appointments as a padded armrest. There are no cup holders, but an ashtray and lighter reside in the middle of the dash. Europeans had their priorities.

"Doesn't leak much oil!" he said. It started up with a diesel-like clatter, with an automatic choke and no drama -- no stomping of pedals, no fiddling of knobs, no prayers to Njörðr, the Norse god of seafaring. Despite the blustery cold the sun hung lazily in a crisp blue sky, drawing out a scattered crowd to mill about Harvard Square. We drove past the famous Dewey, Cheetham and Howe window of Car Talk fame, whose Magliozzi brothers surely would have been proud to witness the 96 in their fair city. People stared, waved cameras at us. With tweed coats and leather jackets, we looked like characters a dour Scandinavian crime movie.

"It's not bad," Charles mused.

The Ford Taunus V4 saved Saab in the midst of growing emissions regulations and the Arab Oil Crisis, which kicked off the same year this car rolled off the Trollhattan line. Understressed and relaxed, the engine featured 1.7 liters of low-compression goodness in America. (In Europe, 1.5 liters was deemed more than adequate.) Horsepower? 62. Torque? 96 ft-lbs' worth. Charles's Stage II 9000, which displays hellish, frightening wheelspin all the way through 4th gear, has nearly 200 more.

In a program dubbed Operation Kajsa, Saab tested four-stroke engines from Volvo, Lancia, Triumph, Opel, Ford, and Volkswagen. The project operated with military-precise subterfuge and obfuscation. Only seven people in the company knew about the new engine. Saab engineers rented a house away from the factory to do their work, and started a new company to hide the source of incoming V4 parts -- not even the internal purchasing department knew about the new engine, which caused a stir among suppliers. Chief Engineer Rolf Mellde, sworn to secrecy, told executives that he was going to take a leave of absence and run his father's paint shop. In actuality, he drove around Italy for six months with a V4 prototype, racking up 30,000 miles in the process. When Saab employees went home for summer holiday, 40 of them were called back to fit new brakes. But when they got to the factory, the ruse was unraveled: they were instructed to install Ford V4 engines into 350 96s. Ultimately, they finished 600.

When they were done, one employee was sent to local Ford dealerships to buy every single V4 badge he could find.

The Guy With The Saab Tattoo Charles Tao

Charles bragged that he once topped out at 70mph, the average qualifying speed for the Storrow Drive Grand Prix. Around town the lack of power isn't an issue -- you get used to it real quick. The most you'll see is 30 mph. Just point and squirt.

Now we were on Memorial Drive, the Charles River icily still to our left, and the broad, salt-white street devoid of traffic. "It's like commuting to work on a quagga," Charles observed. "You know, that extinct horse zebra looking thing." Of course. He shifted to fourth gear and the engine grumbled reluctantly. "Now it feels like we're in a rally!"

The four-speed column shifter feels precise and well oiled and snaps into place with a click: "Your arm does the same thing [as a floor shifter]," explained Charles, "Your wrist just has to turn. It's pretty hard to describe." But it's surprisingly easy to grasp and get used to, literally and figuratively: from the steering wheel it's right at one's fingertips. Paddle shifters? Stuff it. I managed to chirp the tires in first gear, inadvertently. "That's never happened before," said Charles. A Honda Accord blew past us, its driver contorted in the seat with an expression of confusion and anger, like a congressman explaining rap music.

For a car narrow enough to seemingly lane split, the Saab is very solid and stable, and its ride is excellent. Soft springs mean that corners take about a second before the car reacts, followed by a gentle nosedive, like you're on a log flume raft.

"Yeah! Especially an inflatable one. So it's not just the water." Charles laughed as he shifted a flurry of times. "Well, it's not really rev matching. It does sound like a bit of a truck, it's a rough motor. No top end whatsoever."

Redline is possibly around 5,000. Not that we'd know. Our car didn't come with a tachometer.

"It's surprisingly normal, this thing," he noted. "This car is quirky enough to be interesting, but it doesn't step the line into annoying. Like a Model T or something."

Charles is a noted purveyor of both Swedish machinery and terrible puns. Blake Z. Rong

On the national scourge of social media, someone tweeted: "I don't really care about cars and I want this car."

"That's the reaction I get!" said Charles. "People do squeal when they see it. Last night I parked at a bar waiting for a friend, and everyone looks at it and points it out."

"I suppose you don't get much road rage?"

"Well, you saw that person let me out of my driveway?" Charles had made a left onto Cambridge Ave, and a woman in a Jetta -- perhaps a curiosity-seeker -- had stopped to let us pull out. A rarity in Boston. In this car, nobody gets mad at you. Probably because they're wondering what the hell it is in the first place.

Nobody is ever up to any good this close to the docks. Blake Z. Rong

In 1973 you could buy an Opel Manta at your Buick dealer, or a Mazda RX-2, or a Pontiac Grand Am with a 455. 1973 was also the first model year of this goofy little hatchback called the Honda Civic -- which, with the oil crisis, was "what the world is coming to." Volkswagen's Beetle was still selling strong. Are all of those nameplates too mainstream for you? Then you could head to Saab Cape Cod in Barnstable, Massachusetts (do you detect a pattern?) and buy a car from literary hero Kurt Vonnegut, who once described the Saab as "the wet dream of engineers in an airplane factory who had never made a car before." Don't ask him to replace the transmission mounts.

Everyone who works on these things ends up an enthusiast, said Charles; you kinda have to be. There are few automotive experiences that feel more quintessentially right than a Saab in New England. The Saab 96 is a car that holds you hostage with its charms and wins you over with its steadfastness. It just has that effect on you. You could, perhaps, call it Stockholm Syndrome.

This content is created and maintained by a third party, and imported onto this page to help users provide their email addresses. You may be able to find more information about this and similar content at piano.io