The bodywork is somehow minimal and expansive at the same time. I mean, there’s only a tank and seat unit, but they’re huge. The air intake scoops look like the nostrils of a sleeping dragon, waiting to breathe fire and wreak havoc when awakened, and they flank that distinctive hooded headlight. The exhaust headers look like an ancient musical instrument designed to provide the backdrop to raging underground rivers of fire. The footpegs are tiny little horns, while the spiky taillights add more hornyness to the package.
And like the design details, the Diavel seduces you with its attitude too. It speaks only the most fluent Italian with a thick V-twin accent. Like any self-respecting Ducati, it spits and curses around town. Despite being hydraulic, the clutch is a test of your left hand’s character.
However, the Diavel makes up for its faults with that deeply primal yet sonorous exhaust note that plays a desmo-symphony inside your helmet. It sounds brilliant when you’re gunning it and even better on the overrun, the twin stacked exhausts burbling, crackling and hissing sweet nothings into my right ear canal which, as a result, is now wider. But I’m not complaining. I can’t. Not when this ancient holy land is giving me more and more reasons to downshift and make the Diavel sing, thanks to the never-ending twisties.