The following is a list of cars that my mother has referred to as the Batmobile:

Corvette Stingray
Dodge Viper
Jaguar F-Type
Toyota Prius (??) [??? – Ed.]

The other day, Mother Pritchard recanted all former occurrences of calling a car the Batmobile when I arrived for supper in the Polaris Slingshot.

“Oh, no, THIS is the Batmobile. The real Batmobile,” she said, walking out into the driveway with an apron and a saucy ladle and a gigantic grin you could see from Google Earth.

“What the hell is it?!” she asked. Shortly, all of her neighbors were checking it out, too. Ditto a lady that was walking her dog nearby. And two people who were just driving by, but pulled over and parked and got out for a look.

The Slingshot looks like designers were instructed to break up anything more than four square inches of smooth bodywork with a vent, or an angle, or a slash. It looks like something drawn by a ten-year-old gearhead with sharpened pencil crayons and a ruler. It attracts crowds of cellphone-wielding teenagers. Or maybe there was a Pokémon inside? The Slingshot looks drastic. Radical. Extreme. It draws crowds like a car ten times its $31,000 sticker.

But let’s dispense with the important part first: the Polaris Slingshot is not a sports car. Read that twice.

And it’s not a bike either.

And sure, it’s a bit of both. It’s a car, in that you don’t need a motorcycle license to drive it, and that it has a steering wheel, and that it has an interior, and that you feel funny walking away from it without remote locking the doors, since there aren’t any. And it’s like a bike, in that it has rubber seats, that you shouldn’t take it through a car-wash, in that you need a helmet to drive one, and that it’s one-wheel drive.

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