This wasn't the cyclist's fault. He never touched me. I simply tripped. However, this sent me sprawling over the paved trail and the gravel verge. I put my hands out (which was the wrong thing to do, but it's what you tend to do automatically) and got both palms scraped up and full of dirt. My left knee similarly got skinned, I put a hole in the knee of my slacks, and the khaki soon had red highlights from the blood leaking out of the cut.
I limped back the kilometer or so to my office, cleaned up the cuts, and applied antiseptic wipes, ointments, and bandages from our first aid kit. This wasn't that serious — it's not as though I needed stitches or had broken anything — but it was darned annoying, particularly as I was going up to San Francisco that evening to see 1776. I let my manager know I was hors de combat and went back to my hotel in San Jose so I could change into non-torn, non-dirt-stained clothing, put the slacks in cold water to soak out the bloodstains, then worked from the hotel room for a while prior to heading to Diridon Station to catch the "baby bullet" up to The City.
Today, I have bruises I hadn't noticed initially, and my right palm is still moderately torn up. My knee keeps wanting to stiffen up along with my ankle. But I'm recovering. And I'm still walking.
A simply trip shouldn't have left me so banged up, I would have thought. I guess I'm just lucky that I didn't do something harder to heal, or break my glasses (the case flew out of my pocket and took no harm otherwise).