![]() Tom won the 12-to-14-year-old heat handily. Everyone was wearing T-shirts and gym shorts except for Tom, who stood out in the professional-grade helmet, jersey, padded cycling shorts, and fingerless gloves his father had just bought him. As the stadium lights buzzed, a dozen suburban kids gathered on the track. Crashes and multirider spills are common.Ī week later, Tom returned to the velodrome with his maroon Schwinn. Cyclists aggressively jockey for position, bumping 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, track racing happens in a matter of minutes in tight confines. The oval track measured 382 meters, with two long straightaways connected by curves banked at 18 degrees, allowing riders to maintain high speeds. But the moment they entered the stadium, he was transfixed. ![]() When his friend Kristin invited him to go, the skinny teen with straight black hair said yes only because he had a crush on her. Every time the pack whirled by, it cut the air, unleashing a concentrated whoosh.īefore that summer of 1983, Tom had never seen a bicycle race, let alone a velodrome. ![]() Seated in the bleachers, 13-year-old Tom Justice was in awe of the cyclists careening around the outdoor track. “Anyone interested in racing, bring your bike, and try your luck,” a voice announced over the tinny loudspeaker at the Ed Rudolph Velodrome in Northbrook. Tom’s fascination with bikes started early. The man returned the empty sack to his messenger bag and pedaled away. Several bundles of cash - what authorities would later reveal to be $4,009 - tumbled into the garbage with a syncopated 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 upside down over the trashcan. He pedaled into Gillson Park in Wilmette and cruised up to a trashcan. By the time the train was gone, so was the thief.įifteen minutes later, he was coasting south along Sheridan Road. Metra rumbling into the station three blocks away. There were no sirens or alarms - only the sound of the 11:26 a.m. It had been less than three minutes since he exited the bank. He climbed onto the bike, clicked into the pedals, and began to ride leisurely. Not 60 seconds later, he emerged, carrying an aluminum bicycle on one shoulder and a messenger bag over the other and wearing a red, white, and blue spandex bodysuit, a silver helmet, sunglasses with yellow lenses, and a pair of cycling shoes. And so did the man, descending into a parking garage. Returning a stiff nod, the officer kept rolling. As the ATV approached, the robber smiled and waved hello, as would anyone who had not just knocked over a bank. Squeezing the shopping bag, he settled into a relaxed gait. Suddenly the man spotted a police officer riding a four-wheel ATV. The street was empty: no cars, no pedestrians. “Thank you,” he said before walking out the front door. While the teller anxiously transferred bundles of cash, the man held his hands at his heart, gently pressing his palms together as if he were about to whisper, Namaste. “Nice and easy,” he said coolly, handing over a white plastic shopping bag from Sports Authority. The man, who would later be described to the police as a slender, clean-shaven white man in his 20s wearing a light blue oxford shirt, returned the note card to his pocket. She stared at the words handwritten in black marker: “THIS IS A ROBBERY. Instead, he presented her with a 3-by-5-inch index card. The man reached to the back of his khakis, as if to fish out a wallet. “May I help you?” said the young woman behind the counter, smiling. Standing patiently by the velvet ropes, the man looked at his wristwatch. The morning of May 26, 2000, was quiet inside the LaSalle Bank in suburban Highland Park. The man in the baseball cap and sunglasses waited for the teller to notice him. This article is published in partnership with Epic Magazine.
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