EMPTY midsummer would seem a not-too-daring time for an experiment behind the wheel, so I decided to try spending an entire week on the roads of Westchester -- back-country to highway -- without going a single mile over the speed limit, no matter how slow that was.
This may not appear much of a challenge. But just knowing I can make an engine rev and go wherever I want on the double-charge always does my otherwise mild-mannered suburban soul some good. Trade that constant possibility of illicit behavior for a week of strict obedience, and the results would be anybody's guess.

Sunday 
It was the official day of rest, which means I was up at 6 to play my weekly basketball game in Irvington. I pulled out of my driveway, only to realize that there was no speed limit sign -- anywhere. A call to the village police revealed that the default speed limit in our village (the fastest you can go in Hastings if no sign marks the area) is 25 miles an hour.
Fair enough. If you went much faster, it would be dangerous entering the traffic stream on Route 9. But it was just after dawn on Sunday; hardly anybody was even on Route 9. My law-abiding puttering down the road at the posted limit of 30 did not engender road rage, or even what came to be the common reaction: the parade of cars nipping at my heels, at times appearing in the rear-view mirror the size of the Seventh Infantry Division, every fifth vehicle or so flashing a light as its driver tried to pull into the passing lane.
Another discovery on Route 9 that would set the tone for the week: I had to remain self-consciously aware of the speed limit in order not to creep higher. The limit -- there and almost everywhere else -- seemed to be set unrealistically low, turning obedience into a concentrated chore.

Tuesday 
In the fast lane on the Saw Mill River Parkway while returning from a dinner in Pleasantville, I was a rolling provocation. Three-dozen cars romped past me on the right before I hit my exit at Hastings, more than 10 miles south. As poky a pace as I was setting at 55, things turned worse just past the county police station, where the posted speed limit dropped to 50. I tapped the brakes, earning a honk and prompting my son -- who was by now getting used to the gravitational drag -- to pipe up, ''What did you do to them, Daddy?''

Friday 
I woke up ready to troll for reactions, mannerly and otherwise, during rush hour. It turned out that the Thruway was the wrong place to start: too much traffic even to make it to the speed limit.
Eventually congestion eased up; I took I-684, the Saw Mill and the Sprain, and a spin both ways on the Cross County, all the while trying my best to keep count of cars that passed.
It was a stampede. What does it say about society that a man trying to obey the law is treated like an obstacle and an outcast?
I decided to interrupt my experiment to find out just why the speed limit is the most disobeyed law on the books. The National Motorists Association in Waunakee, Wis., seemed a good place to start. It was created in 1982 to fight the 55-mile-an-hour speed limit. The 55-mile-an-hour speed limit was put into effect in 1974.
Eric Skrum, a spokesman, explained that drivers primarily set their pace relative to one another. ''Emotion plays a bigger role than traffic engineers,'' he said. Over time, he added, this habit undermines confidence in the law.
Mr. Skrum does not advocate turning anything with a straightaway into a devil's playground; far from it. But he did note that after a generation, the federal government finally acknowledged the irrelevance of the 55 limit by lifting it.
He also mentioned the open secret of speed limits: They are purposely set low so that local governments always have the option of raising money the old-fashioned way, by ticketing.
I told him of my driving experiment and was promptly reprimanded.
''By doing that, you were the most dangerous one on the road,'' he said.
It was the best I had felt all week.