Berkshires, clockwise

The inspiration sprang from a late-night bull session in which plans are hatched and brain cells are snatched — and from mention of the irrefutable truth that people just don't circumnavigate like they used to.

Guinness World Records gave official recognition last month that Briton Robert Garside had successfully jogged around the world.

Jogged? Come on.

If such were the guidelines in the 16th century, Ferdinand Magellan — who feared sea serpents and falling off the edge of the earth — could've moonwalked it. Where's the danger? Where the adversity?

So this was the inspiration: circumnavigate Berkshire County by car and (here's where it becomes treacherous) do so within a mile per hour of the posted speed limit (which is how I travel these days since one more speeding ticket will increase my monthly car insurance bill to roughly the gross national product of Guyana).

With the Toyota in turtle gear, we set off on a recent morning — one of those early-April, seasonally schizophrenic mornings — my co-pilot, Doug, me, our western Massachusetts Jimapco map, and a dream. Doug's task was to count how many motorists either rode roughshod upon our bumper, passed us in a no-passing zone, or ran us off the road in some Berkshire backwater only to be discovered weeks later by the state K-9 unit. My task was to drive and to do my best to keep Doug from regretting he wasted his day off.

Our course began on Route 41 in Housatonic, traveling clockwise around the county, as close to the borders of New York, Vermont, Franklin and Hampden counties, and Connecticut as seemed sensible (that is to say, Mount Washington and Clarksburg, you're on your own, which is probably how you prefer it). I figure we traveled more than 120 miles. It took about four hours.

A mere 20 minutes into the trip, Doug was getting carsick. (My generation, they have no discipline.) I tried to push him on. "Doug, be strong." I backtracked on Route 20 into Pittsfield and bought him some McDonald's. He suckled on that a bit and was happy once again.

By the time we hit Williamstown, Doug had depleted his reserve of cow jokes (including, "What do you call a cow that gives birth? Decalfinated").

And my nerves were shattered from the angry motorists who had been chewing up my rearview mirror along Route 43 in Hancock.

After a break in North Adams, where I rubbed some Ben Gay onto my gas-pedal foot, we puttered up onto the Mohawk Trail, the Berkshires' top shelf, where the county holds for safekeeping such lovely curiosities as the town of Florida.

By Savoy, Doug began getting testy, partially because no one had flipped us the bird yet, and partially because I controlled the radio. I could smell a mutiny.

"Just hop on 8A back to Pittsfield, and let's go home," he said.

I fended it off. "Careful. I'll drop you off in Peru — and not the one with the white sand beaches and Incan ruins."

By Becket, I was seriously second-guessing the value of citizen social science.

But midway through Becket, things brightened. We were traveling at the posted speed of (I think) 30 mph on (I think) Bonnie Hill Rigg Road, when a Camaro — as if sent by Central Casting — came grumbling up behind us. And yes, it wove in and out of the rearview, as Camaros were manufactured to do. And yes, it vroomed-vroomed and tried to take us out at the knees. And yes, I'm pleased to say that as it passed us, the young man driving made an obscene gesture with his longest finger.

"Doug, old boy," I said, "does that help?"

"Yeah," he said. "That was perfect."

The trip was a cakewalk after that.

Triumphantly, we turned onto Route 23 in South Egremont, where the town fathers prefer motorists get out and push their cars down Main Street but will settle for 15 mph. We were feeling a little cocky, in fact, and downshifted to 15 mph. We waved to the people as if we were on a victory march up the Champs-Elysées.

Soon enough, Doug and I were back to our starting point with promises not to hang out again for a long while.

Here's the tally: 17 aggressive tailgaters, nine passings in a no-passing zone, many hands flailing expressively, but only one bird.

Here are the conclusions: Nice area, these Berkshires. Really. He travels slowest who travels alone. Berkshire County is not round, but in fact, rectangular, just as everyone thought.

And, finally, if given the choice of circumnavigating the Berkshires again, I'd rather fight a 16th-century sea serpent.