Apparently, a sports car is a cure or prevention for disabling ailments. In the course of doing our weekly farmer's market visit, we used a handicapped parking spot. I have qualified for a handicapped hang tag for some time now, although I don't actually use it all that often -- mostly just to avoid gimping miles in from the visitor lots at the hospital, when I do my MRI festivals.
But this week, the HC spot was all that was available, so we made use of it. First, as we were getting out of the car, one of Ann Arbor's miserable meter persons (a thankless job if there ever was one) accosted us "to let us know that's a handicapped sp ... oh, never mind" as he actually bothered to look for a tag.
Then, as we dropped off one set of purchases and were heading off for another batch, a huge woman in a huge SUV asked essentially the same question, in a distinctly hostile tone.
So for the future guidance of the ill-bred, whose numbers around here appear to be increasing, yes, you can drive a 3-year old 350Z and still have cancer. No, nothing about owning a reasonably performant vehicle is proof against a permanent limp and a shaky knee.
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