Sliding Down Barham Blvd. in a Beetle in 1966
The endless summer was over and we were back in school. One Friday evening in October 1965, a group of friends and I caravanned from Burbank
to Hollywood. There, as underage youth, we could buy cigars without
showing identification. The Wolf Bros. Crooks brand, with their, “Rum
Soaked, Dipped in Wine” motto, were our favorites. With alcohol-soaked
tobacco, we pretended that we were drinking and smoking at the same
time; only our lack of access to alcohol kept us sober. That night, I
rode shotgun in my friend and classmate Phil Plank’s Volkswagen Bug,
which he called his “V-dub.”
The only separation from opposing traffic on Barham Boulevard consisted
of a double white line. On the downhill ride toward Burbank, the slope
ended at an intersection with Forrest Lawn Drive, better known to us
as the River Road. On 
our return trip from Hollywood,
the road rose over a hill, and then descended, while acing slowly to
the right for about a quarter mile. As Phil held his steering wheel to
the right, the camber of the roadway sloped gently to the right, as
well.
At Burbank Senior High School,
we learned some basic laws of chemistry and physics. For instance,
“Oil and water do not mix,” “An object in motion tends to stay in
motion,” and “The heavy end of any object will try to lead the parade.”
Pushing in the cigarette lighter at the top of the hill, Phil ignored
all these laws.
As we crested Barham Boulevard, a slight drizzle began to fall. While
waiting for the cigarette lighter to pop out, Phile reached down to
tune in the AM radio and activate the windshield wipers. With our
friend’s car ahead of us, Phil wanted good music and good visibility
for his overtaking maneuver. In his exuberance to overtake, and in
steadfast belief in his own immortality, Phil accelerated throughout the
long downhill curve. Soon enough, all the laws of chemistry and
physics came into play.
After months of a Southern California drought,
oil on the roadway glistened colorfully in the headlights of oncoming
vehicles. The emulsion of oil and water on the roadway provided
friction like a sheet of ice. As the tires lost traction on the road, I
found myself looking straight into the headlights of an oncoming car.
With its rear engine design, the V-dub tried to swap ends and thus lead
the way with its engine-heavy tail. In a vain attempt to slow down,
Phil slammed his foot down on the brake pedal.
As we swung once again towards oncoming traffic, I saw my Maker. Who
would believe that God drove a 1958 Cadillac? With unwavering speed,
the heavy Caddy struck our little Bug, making contact aft of our
driver’s side door. Mercifully, the impact sent us back to our own side
of the road. According to one witness, we swung around three times as
we descended the hill. Facing uphill, windshield wipers still thumping,
we stopped just short of the 
intersection
at Forest Lawn Drive. Less than half a mile from our final resting
place that night lay the largest cemetery in Los Angeles.
Staring straight ahead, with both of his hands still clutching the
steering wheel, Phil sat in shock. A telltale splatter of blood on the
windshield told me that the impact had caused his nose to hit the
steering wheel. Still gripping the grab handle on the passenger side of
the dashboard, I exclaimed, “Phil, we f---ed your whole car.” When I
received nothing more than a blank stare from Phil, I 
got out and helped direct traffic around Phil and his badly broken Beetle.
The whole event took less than a minute. Although my life did not flash
before my eyes, as events unfolded, I knew that my life might end at
any moment. That I survived uninjured gave me a startling clarity that
only such near-death experiences seem to bring. I was seventeen years
old and blessed to be alive.
Excerpted from the 2018 Book, “True Tales of Burbank,” by Wesley H. Clark and the late Michael B. McDaniel (1956-2024). Both authors are Burbank High alumni.
