Even when you’re well into three-digit speeds, the front wheel rises, daring the heavens to challenge its hell-raising ways. There’s so much power at my disposal, I almost declare war on Pakistan. The Diavel does corrupt you. Approaching our destination, the weather turns dark and gloomy, almost as if the holy forces don’t like its approach. But its formidable traction control system allows the Diavel to give a damn about road conditions, keeping up high speeds with ease.
As I screech... er, ABS to a halt in McLeod Ganj’s tiny main square, the sound of dropping jaws echoes through the hills. Tourists seem to be looking for the fastest way out of town, while the monks’ chants intensify and their fingers are a blur around their prayer beads. But of course, all of this menace is accompanied by the flair for detail typical of the Italians – the devil, after all, is in the details – and it doesn’t take long for curiosity to overcome shock. Soon, it seems as if entire monasteries have descended upon the Diavel. The Diavel tempts them, and that’s understandable too.