Here's a cut 'n paste from BurgmanUSA.com.
I'm back at home, so I thought I'd send as complete a record of events as I can come up with.
Wednesday a.m., Jerry (old-timer currently has at least six Suzuki's of various sizes, but chose to ride his V-Strom 1000) and I decided to go for a ride in Southern Indiana. It happened to be 1 day after the six year anniversary of the death of his brother, who was killed while they were on a similar ride (but a different road). (Jerry is doing well, considering the circumstances.) We took a rather circuitous route from Princeton, IN, north, almost to Vincennes, where I suggested that we switch rides for a little while. We went back south to Boonville, and then wended east along the Ohio river, winding our way onto Indiana 66. At a little (!) town called Sulpher, we gassed up, emptied out, and switched back to our own bikes. We had ridden each others' bikes for about 100 of our, so far, 160 or so mile ride. Indiana 66 is a lovely two-lane, very twisty. In fact, the week before, Tim (who rides a 650 V-Strom) and I had ridden a more eastern section of this same road on our way to Corydon to see JD and JLD. As we continued east, toward Derby, we passed at least four different road rehab or line crews, so our riding, though quite enjoyable, was probably less spirited than it might have otherwise been. I was trailing Jerry, as he was much more familiar with the road than I. I generally ride in the outermost tire track, the leader taking the inside track. Unfortunately, I was far enough behind him that I could have - should have - been using the whole lane. At about 6~7 miles since the stop, we were rounding a downhill left at around 45~60 mph when, just before the end of the turn, the road dropped off rather radically. I could feel that the grip had eased, which meant I had to stand the bike more upright, increasing the radius of the turn such that, as I was already on the outer edge of the road, I just ran out of tarmac. I have been in this type (sort of) of situation many times before, and figured that if I just stood it up, I'd be in for a rough ride, but probably would be able to save it. Not this time. After about 30 feet on the gravel edge, the bike went into a steep wash and then up onto a steep, shale ledge. I suppose that's when I got the compression fracture, because I have no memory after that. Jerry says that in the rear-view mirror, he saw the bike crash down on the tail section, do at least two complete endos and spins, and crash down again on the same general area of the bike. He said he saw a rag-doll-like object trailing the bike (me, of course) but could not see exactly how it landed. He quickly turned around and parked his bike on the opposite shoulder of the road and came to me. He'd thought that when he first saw me lying on the ground, I was on my left side, but when he reached me, I was on my back. He called my name several times, and after what must have seemed like an eternity, I popped open my eyes and said, "Yeah?" He had undone my d-links, so I immediately got up and took off my helmet. At about this time his bike fell over. (I do not remember this part.) According to Jerry, he went over to pick up his bike, and when he couldn't quite get it upright, I ran over and pushed it the rest of the way up with him. (Okay, now I start remembering again.) I patted my hands all over my major appendages and declared myself, "O.K.' I then started walking up and down on the side of the road, trying to figure out what happened. I had no recollection at that time of even leaving the last stop, so I was more than a little confused. When I'd walked out the latter course of the turn, noted the light skid mark leading off the pavement, and then the aforementioned shale 'berm', I went over to the Burg and (Jerry says) began lamenting my loss in the most humiliating fashion. At that point, Jerry was somewhat relieved that I was physically able to function, but was getting a little apprehensive about my mental clarity, so he decided it would be appropriate to get me away. The rest is particularly embarrassing to me, but suffice to say, I would NOT be taken to a hospital. I would NOT talk to my wife of this until I had time to sort it out myself. I did call Progressive, which was very helpful, but didn't exactly give me any advice as to how to immediately proceed (i.e Police report, hospital check-up, etc.). I ended up riding the 110+ miles back home on the back of the Strom. It was the most miserable ride of my life.
When I got home, I called another friend (the aforementioned Tim) who came over and convinced me that I should probably drop a clue to my wife. When I was on the phone with her, trying to convince her that I didn't need to be looked at by a doctor, and that I had to go back and get the bike, his wife dropped by, took the phone, and stated that SHE would arrange transportation to the hospital of my wife's choice. Tim and another friend hitched a trailer up to his truck, and met my wife halfway to Evansville, Indiana, where I was shoved into her Volvo and taken to Deaconess hospital. The rest, as they say, is history.
Actually a lot of really funny things happened when they got to the scene of the missing Burgman, but I wasn't there. I was wearing a cervical collar, and moving in and out of this big, round, machine.
Whew. That's quite enough for one sitting.
Thanks again for the well-wishes. We'll ride sometime.