VeloNews recently released its 20th Annual Awards Issue, on newsstands now.

In the magazine, VeloNews editors spell out the best, the worst and the most notable performances and personalities of the cycling world in 2007. Below is a sample.

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In our never-ending quest to fill the holes around the ads — space that, ironically, expands exponentially every time we do this — VeloNews presents the ninth annual O’Grady Awards, a back-handed, brass-knuckled slap to cycling’s wind-burned kisser. What can we tell you? He has copies of our tax returns and a friend in the IRS. — The Editors

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The Yolk’s On You Rotten Egg Award:
Michael “Chicken” Rasmussen, for lying his way out of the yellow jersey and into the unemployment line. When it comes to jacking one’s jaw on overdrive, this bird makes Foghorn Leghorn sound like Egghead Junior.

Dishonorable mention:
Andrey Kashechkin, for having the eggs to claim that the dope cops have no business putting the arm on him. A friend tried a similar defense in 1977 after a bunch of us left a Denver bar clutching longneck Buds, informing a salty Colfax Avenue cop that he had no authority to arrest us for same. Kash’ better hope that 30-year-old case didn’t set a precedent, because we landed in jail.

E.T.’s Go Home Travel Voucher:
All the former Telekoms and T-Mobiles who finally copped to being dopeheads while performing their otherworldly magical stunts, but without doing a second’s penance, returning their ill-gotten gains or donating same to charity. This is like admitting to robbing a credit union just as the statute of limitations expires and then motoring off in a Mercedes SL65 AMG with an Olson twin wrapped around you like an anorexic boa constrictor. Don’t call us, fellas, we’ll call you.

What Goes Around Keeps Going Around Mobius Strip with Single-Cog Cluster:
All the communities that suddenly “need” their own velodromes. C’mon, guys, there are, what, like three track racers in the United States? An uptick in fixie sales does not a track resurgence indicate. Instead, think clueless 20-something fashionistas doomed to challenge the laws of physics by trying to share the same space and time with cab doors, clueless pedestrians and truck bumpers while frantically squeezing brake levers that aren’t there. Chasing a velodrome is an exercise in futility on par with opening a Boca-burger-and-chai stand at the Daytona 500. You want the gift that keeps on giving, build a crit circuit enclosing a ’cross park, a BMX course and a brewpub.

Land of Moab Endless Tourism Package:
The Tour of America as originally proposed, which would make the Israelites’ wanderings in the desert look like a weekend on Fire Island. Sure, if it weren’t for big thinking, there might not be an America to have a Tour of. This notwithstanding, we’re looking for something from John Ford here, not Cecil B. DeMille.

Revenge of the Nerds Disco Ball:
Yet another group shout-out, this one to all the propeller-heads, skunk-workers and geek-boys who keep pissing roadie stink all over everything. First, they came for road racing, and I did not speak out, because I was not a roadie. Then they came for track, and mountain biking, and I did not speak out, because I was neither a fathead or a trackstander. But god damn it, now these gram-shaving, carbon-molding, 10-speeding, run-shunning sonsabitches have cyclocross by the wallet pocket with a downhill pull and it pisses me off, so much so that my last bike buy was a $500 steel Soma Double Cross frameset, which I built up with eight-speed Shimano 600 and bar-end shifters, an equally ancient XT crankset and 32-spoke clincher wheels. Selling a weekend warrior one of the 16-pound wonderbikes infesting the ’08 catalogs is like tossing the keys from a Ferrari 599 GTB Fiorano to Mister Magoo.*

*Full disclosure:
I once owned a titanium VooDoo Loa with a pair of carbon ZIPPs, STI and a one-off Marzocchi suspension fork. So what? Now get off my lawn, you young punks, before I call the cops.

Runner-up:
All the cycling-press techno-weenies who keep pimping these high-dollar dates. What the hell was so wrong about eight-speed drivetrains, steel framesets and one-inch steerers? If Rivendell offered a Ned Lud-badged ’cross bike in Reynolds 853 with a “Monkey Wrench Gang” wool jersey and wooden shoes to match, I’d have one before the ink was dry on the catalog.*

* Full disclosure:
Small honoraria from craigslist and eBay helped contribute to the production of this column. Hey, I’ve already warned you once: Get off my friggin’ lawn! I’m dialing here!