He was training at the velodrome on Mondays and Wednesdays, racing every Thursday, and pedaling for hours around Libertyville ’ s winding bet on roads. He was regularly shaving his muscular legs to try to make himself more streamlined. ”īy Tom ’ mho junior year at Libertyville High School, his identity hinged on cycle. “ Get out in front, ” Jay began telling his son before races, “ and don ’ thyroxine let anyone get around you.

His church father, Jay, a abruptly, barrel-chested dark blue seasoned with an abundance of athleticism, was thrilled. After trying basketball, baseball, and soccer and accepting he was everyday at any sport involving a ball, Tom had finally found something he excelled at. Straddling his motorcycle, his chest however heaving, he felt a surge of epinephrine. Tom won the 12-to-14-year-old heat handily. Everyone was wearing T-shirts and gymnasium shorts except for Tom, who stood out in the professional-grade helmet, jersey, padded cycle shorts, and fingerless gloves his founder had barely bought him. As the stadium lights buzzed, a twelve suburban kids gathered on the lead. Ī week subsequently, Tom returned to the velodrome with his maroon Schwinn. Crashes and multirider spills are common. It ’ s like NASCAR, except with no brakes. Cyclists aggressively jockey for position, dislodge and elbowing as they fly around corners at 50 miles per hour. While road races like the Tour de France play out over days on courses that meander for miles, racetrack race happens in a count of minutes in compressed confines. The ellipse racetrack measured 382 meters, with two long straightaways connected by curves banked at 18 degrees, allowing riders to maintain high gear speeds. But the moment they entered the stadium, he was transfixed. When his friend Kristin invited him to go, the scraggy adolescent with straight black haircloth said yes alone because he had a crush on her. īefore that summer of 1983, Tom had never seen a bicycle rush, let alone a velodrome. Every clock the battalion whirled by, it cut the air, unleashing a digest whoosh. Seated in the bleachers, 13-year-old Tom Justice was in awe of the cyclists careening around the outdoor track. “ Anyone concerned in racing, bring your bicycle, and try your luck, ” a voice announced over the bum loudspeaker at the Ed Rudolph Velodrome in Northbrook. Tom’s fascination with bikes started early. The man returned the empty pouch to his messenger bag and pedaled away. several bundles of cash - what authorities would subsequently reveal to be $ 4,009 - tumbled into the drivel with a syncopate thud. After fishing out two crisp $ 20 bills and shoving them into the pocket of his bodysuit, he removed the Sports Authority bag and held it top depressed over the trashcan. He pedaled into Gillson Park in Wilmette and cruised improving to a trashcan. įifteen minutes late, he was coasting confederacy along Sheridan Road. By the time the string was gone, thus was the thief. There were no sirens or alarms - only the sound of the 11:26 ante meridiem Metra rumbling into the station three blocks away. It had been less than three minutes since he exited the bank. He climbed onto the motorcycle, clicked into the pedals, and began to ride at leisure. Not 60 seconds later, he emerged, carrying an aluminum bicycle on one shoulder and a messenger base over the other and wearing a crimson, white, and blue spandex bodysuit, a silver helmet, sunglasses with yellow lenses, and a pair of bicycle shoes. And therefore did the homo, descending into a park garage.

Returning a stiff nod, the policeman kept rolling. As the ATV approached, the robber smiled and waved hello, as would anyone who had not just knocked over a trust.

Squeezing the shopping bag, he settled into a relax gait. abruptly the man spotted a patrol military officer riding a four-wheel ATV. The street was empty : no cars, no pedestrians. “ Thank you, ” he said before walking out the front doorway.

The bicycle thief