We few, we band of brothers and sisters, all six billion of us on planet earth, have identified the problem and we’ve identified the solution. We’re all in agreement about who is what. Even those who are classified as the problem know they’re the problem. And yet they continue to charge around like the bulls of Pamplona. I’m talking, of course, about drivers of cars.

Somewhere along the line they’ve equated a deed to a car with ownership of the macadam itself. Anybody brash enough to set foot or bike on this same macadam stands in mortal danger as the self-designated monarchs whiz past. This isn’t because car drivers are inherently evil. They’re not. We’re not. It’s just that when any one of us scoots behind a steering wheel, we blindly, innocently, dumbly and unconsciously seize despotic control over all living things, surrounded as we are by at least 4,500 pounds of heavy metal. Drivers of army tanks undoubtedly feel it tenfold.

This lingering hubris must go. The ice cap is melting, four million gallons per diem of oil has been gushing into the Gulf of Mexico, and an American president who shall remain nameless embroiled us in a seven-year war with a petroleum-saturated country. And yet automobile drivers continue to roar down the road as if they and their cars haven’t been cast as the toxin of the last century and the first tenth of this one.

Okay, drivers, your days of alpha supremacy are numbered. You’re about to go the way of women who wear fur coats and indoor smokers and the dodo itself. Granted, the internal combustion engine is bound to be with us for a few more inconvenient years. But every driver needs to have his and her consciousness raised and ego deflated. We must buckle to the reality that driving a car is the tackiest way to travel, and anybody who has to resort to it is going to feel a little, well, shady.

Drivers will still have the big old highways at their disposal. If they can reach them, since all surface streets and byways will be virtually unnavigable, as car drivers defer to people moving from point A to point B without motors involved in their mobility. Horns will become obsolete as drivers cruise too cautiously to need them. A driver who shouts verbal insults at a bicyclist or a walker will be fined up to $50,000. Multiple offenders will be shipped to the southern Pacific island of Pitcairn where the population now rests at 52, and the main form of transportation is by foot or quadbike.

And here’s a preview of the coming utopia, a brave new world that has already been adopted in Amsterdam (of course!), Barcelona, Paris, Berlin, Basel, Copenhagen, Bogota and — way to go USA — Portland, Ore., Boulder, Colo., San Francisco and Davis, Calif. Following the example of these fine cities, every road in America will have a well-marked bicycle lane where bicyclists can pedal freely without fear of going splat. There will be an adjacent multipurpose lane where slower cyclists, pedestrians, scooter-riders and dog walkers can lollygaggle.

God knows where we’ll put mopeds, which are a nuisance to everyone. Maybe we can provide tax incentives for them to switch to bicycles and actually work off some of that extra backside poundage. Shoot! Every car-free citizen should enjoy a tax advantage. Why hasn’t this been legislated? And buses? Buses are groovy. Buses will have their own lane.

This earthly paradise will arrive. But when? Why not start here on Martha’s Vineyard? Here’s this activist’s modest proposal: First, on the fun side, let’s choose our colors. How about purple and white? We’re already partial to that combination, and it’s always a good way to get in a dig at Nantucket’s football team. And can somebody compose a peppy fight song? Livingston? Jemima? But here’s the kicker: When we make any sortie on foot or by bicycle, we use the center of the road. I’m telling you, this is the way we start the revolution. Walk or ride down the middle of Beach Road, Lambert’s Cove, Barnes, Old County, and when queuing up for the Chappy ferry.

We can declare our intention with messages on our backs. Some suggestions: I Don’t Need No Bleeping Oil Wars; Ease On Down the Road; Thanks, Dude, for Braking for Bicyclists; What, Me Hurry?; Another Walker for Peace; Cardio Is My Fuel; Go Home, Fix Some Sandwiches, Ditch the Car and Meet Me at the Beach.

Admittedly, some of us will get pancaked under the tires of motorists on the far fringe of the homicidal right-wing. But running us over will look lousy in the press. With a few brave cyclists and walkers taking one for the team, we’ll change hearts and minds. We’ll have legions of drivers parking their heaps in the thick of Five Corners or at the apex of the Triangle, and walking home.

We’ll accomplish it all under the golden banner of nonviolence. Gandhi would approve! Heck, Gandhi would plunk down in the lotus pose midway up Circuit avenue.

Bipedalists of the Vineyard unite! Listen to the birds as you cycle or amble into town. Slow down to the speed of life. And drivers, relinquish your tons of gross vehicle weight and join us. You’ll like us. (Well, some of us). You’ll enjoy your new life. Honest, you will.

And once you get rid of your car, consider giving up steak as your next grand gesture.

Gazette correspondent Holly Nadler lives in Oak Bluffs.