Itch.

I went up to Tabor last night to watch my very special lady friends compete in the last Tabor race of the summer. I rode up, did my workout before the races started, then found a nice patch of shade in which to kick back and to watch the suffering. Whoops, I mean watch the action. I took my helmet off and placed it right behind me. When I turned around to put it back on an hour later, some dude's clothes were stashed in it. Including some inside-out underpants.

I knew these were not my underpants for several reasons:

1. I don't look good in plaid.

2. They were a size small.

3. I wasn't wearing any underpants that day.

I can not state highly enough the gravity of this situation. Something that has touched some random guy's junk all day long now had to come into contact with my head. Because I usually require someone to, at the very least, buy me a cocktail before there is any sort of junk-fabric-my skin interaction, I wasn't sure what protocol to follow.

I had several options:

1. Make the situation know to those sitting near me on the grass: "Hey, is anyone missing some underpants? If so, would you mind getting them out of MY HELMET?"

2. Pick up each individual piece of clothing and place on grass, pausing to search for a wallet in the pocket of the shorts. I figured that $10-$20 would a fair price for an hour's worth of junk storage.

3. Ride home without a helmet.

The first option was awkward, the second illegal and the third would subject me to the wrath of Beth and the loss of a brand new $150 helmet. In the end I just dumped the whole lot on the grass, fished out my sunglasses and beat the pavement home.

I can't quit itching my head this morning. I am going to be pissed off if I've ended up with some dude's junk funk in my hair.