Sergio Leone meets Willie G. Davidson: The Ducati XDiavel S

The thing about cruisers is, you can see your feet.  I don’t mean you can see your feet when you make a concerted (and dangerous) effort to look downward while in motion but rather you can see your feet with a quick downward look, a furtive glance really, like you’re sizing up what’s in front of you top-to-bottom.  It’s subtle.  Folks who ride sportbikes never have this experience, what with our knees bent at a fetal angle, our feet somewhere aft of our posteriors.  The feet are superfluous to the sportbike equation, except for leverage.  (And not falling over when stopped of course.)  No, the feet to a cruiser rider are key; forward outriggers splayed into the low winds, always arriving before the rider, shifting and braking, yes, but mainly hanging out and projecting a “hang loose” vibe.

The other thing is this, until recently I’d never before seen my feet when riding a motorcycle.  I now have, thanks to the Ducati XDiavel S.

(Thanks to Reno’s Powersports, in Kansas City, MO, and Ducati North America for the recent extended test ride on the XDiavel S.  Thanks also to Allan Lane from Sportbikes Inc for his insight and participation in the event.)

There's a lot going on with the XDiavel S and all of it's good.

Ducati is certainly not well known for its historical commitment to the cruiser motorcycle market.  Prior to the introduction of the Diavel at the EICMA motorcycle show in Milan in 2010, Ducati had produced only one cruiser, the Indiana, which it made from 1986 to 1990.  (A bike manufactured by Cagiva, in fact, and not actually Ducati, though it was powered by the Ducati Pantah engine.  It’s not remembered fondly.)  Ducati’s racing machines and aggressive street naked bikes have graced several generations of little boys’ bedrooms in the form of slick posters (this little boy included), and the Bologna company continues to make some of the most lust-worthy and significant performance machines on the market today.  (And in fairness some brilliant touring and motard bikes as well.)

But the Diavel marked a departure.  It was Ducati’s first real foray into the budding “power cruiser” market best represented by the Harley Davidson V-Rod, Victory Hammer, Honda Valkyrie, and Yamaha Star VMAX (and my previous favorite, the Moto Guzzi Griso).  Designed under guidance by Pierre Terblanche, the Diavel rolled out with a slightly detuned version of the 1198cc motor from the 1198 superbike.  It’s a slightly unusual beast, a power cruiser that superbike and Monster owners could hop onto and feel reasonably comfortable given the modified seating position.  The controls and general disposition are what I’ll call “modified cruiser,” and the Diavel rides like a pumped-up standard more than a true power cruiser.  Thus it’s been a great cross-over bike for sportbike riders wanting something a bit more relaxed but also traditional cruiser riders who want something a bit more aggressive.  It’s a great middle ground and looks like nothing else.  I once asked a Ducati rep to whom the Diavel was intended to be marketed.  “Harley guys who’ve decided they actually want to turn and stop” he replied.  The sales numbers show that Ducati has found a lot of takers.

Slotting into Ducati’s lineup next to the Diavel, the XDiavel is a new machine for 2016.  It is something else entirely. As a true interpretation of a cruiser, the XDiavel hits most of the marks.  Forward controls?  Check.  Belt drive?  Check.  Silly-crazy-wide rear tire (240mm)?  Check.  Zany-long wheelbase (63.6 inches)?  Yep. It also has the requisite big honkin’ large-displacement motor, using a 1262cc version of Ducati’s Testastretta Desmodromic Variable Timing (DVT) L-Twin Dual Spark engine with all the latest electronic gizmos offered by the Italian brand.

And the XDiavel is a looker, or at least certainly looks the part of a sinister power cruiser.  All cruisers are romantic machines.  It’s impossible to think “Harley Davidson” without seeing Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper cruising the American Southwest on their way to New Orleans, or Randall “Tex” Cobb burning up the highway on his way to avenge those little Nathan Arizona tykes (though Cobb's character is actually riding a Honda rather than a Harley).  It’s that last image I had in my head when I first saw the XDiavel, one of foreboding and sinister abandon.

Engine and drivetrain detailing on the XDiavel is simply superb.

The bike is all pissed-off tarantula hawk wasp, it’s curvaceous sheet metal and sculpted billet aluminum gleaming menacingly, it’s stubby exhaust exiting bluntly in front of the massive rear tire, it’s rear wheel an intimidating turbine blade of polished alloy.  What isn’t painted black is brightly polished metal, with no blingy chrome anywhere in the vicinity.  The rider sits cantilevered out over the rear tire with no visible support, arms extended to the handlebars and feet extended to the forward controls with the disproportionate-seeming bulk of the bike’s mass in front, mechanical bits always leading the way.  The XDiavel is not Captain America’s cruiser.  It’s a dark anti-hero’s bike.  And it’s beautiful.  (The design industry seems to agree.  The XDiavel just took home a 2016 Red Dot Award for “Best of the Best”.)

I am not normally a motorcycle cruiser guy. Leisure has never been a priority for me on my rides, which is why you'll still see me swathed in leather and gear appropriate for a MotoGP race (“Dress for the crash, not for the ride”) as I contort my frame over silly-powerful sportbikes with an ever-decreasing dexterity.  I’m also not unfamiliar with Ducati bikes.  I’ve owned a number over the years and have both a 1199 Panigale R and a lovely garage-queen MH900e in my stable right now (along with an Aprilia Tuono 1100 V4 Factory I recently profiled on this blog.)  And the only motorcycle I’ve ever regretted selling was a beloved Ducati S4RS, the last of the “old school” liquid-cooled Monsters.  But with all the positives written about the Diavel, and now the XDiavel, I was immensely intrigued about how the machine would ride.

So how does it ride?  In a word:  Amazing.  In another word:  Surprising.

The knock on power cruisers, or perhaps the design brief, is that they go like hell in a straight line but just don’t try to turn or stop.  The open road is the typical playground of these bikes, long stretches of pavement gobbled up effortlessly, the horizon line stretching out forever and all that.  But for those of us who live to carve, the long lonesome is sometimes a wasted proposition.  So imagine my amazement when I first leaned into a turn on the XDiavel and it not only responded but did so almost telepathically.  Visually the balance of the bike seems all wrong, like the center of gravity would be somewhere way up front, but in practice the bike pivots under the rider as responsively as the newest Ducati Monster machines.  The front end is nicely weighted but not nervous, and the bike steers from the seat as much as from the handlebars, counter-steering effortlessly.  It’s confidence inspiring and makes the rider want to push deeper and harder into turns than seems possible on a cruiser. 

The XDiavel certainly doesn’t want for acceleration.  The bike’s power band is progressive and linear, and the electronic throttle has the same responsive feel as all modern Ducati’s, which is to say wonderful.  The torque curve is fat, with the maximum of 95-ft/lbs reached at only 5000rpm, so that the trip up to 9500rpm (with a max at 10,000) is a progressive locomotive ride.  Maximum power is 156hp.  It’s more than enough.  And it sounds the part, the classic Ducati twin rumble and burble exciting the senses, with the clutch managing a traditional “dry” rattle even though the mechanism is now bathed in fluid.  When this bike pulls up, people can’t help but stop and stare.

The Termi exhaust looks as hostile as it sounds.

The XDiavel S I rode was tricked out with an extensive list of bling from the Ducati accessories catalog and it looked the part.  From various Roland Sands-designed bits to a stubby Termignoni exhaust system with an absolutely vicious looking baffle (think cheese grater from Hell), every single nut and bolt and component on the bike was a joy to take in.  I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a production bike that had such universal detailing (short of a quasi-custom like a Bimota); this is a bike that rewards the visual senses to the same level it rewards the auditory, and manages the difficult balance of being both hyper-designed and not overwrought at the same time.  Well done, Ducati.

And a quick word about the XDiavel’s TFT display:  It’s a marvel, easily the best on any bike I’ve ever seen.  Bright with excellent contrast, the colors vivid in all light levels, easily configurable with left-thumb (back-lit!) controls.  Just great stuff.

(One small irritation is the presence of an electronic proximity key to start the bike up, but that’s a nit about modern vehicles in general I’ll rant about, er, write about in a future piece.)

The XDiavel is a winner on many levels:  Style, performance, uniqueness, sound, visceral thrill.  It’s a massive departure from what folks think of when they think “Ducati” and that may ultimately be the point.  As a styling exercise, this bike hits all the marks, and as a runner the XDiavel offers more than enough for even the most jaded sportbike rider or naked bike fan to appreciate and enjoy.  I will admit to being somewhat bemused about the very idea of a Ducati power cruiser, and when I first pulled away (and figured out where the damn foot controls were located), I wondered, who is this bike for?  After about thirty minutes on a variety of roads and at a variety of speeds, I thought to myself, I get this thing; I totally get this thing.  Truth be told, I liked this bike way more than I would have ever imagined.  I even got used to seeing my feet.   

The Venus de Milo Sighed: Jaguar On Its Game

When Scotland’s Ian Callum joined Jaguar as Design Director in 1999, he brought with him a simple notion: “Jaguars should be perceived as cool cars, and cool cars attract interesting, edgy people.”  This was no modest boast as Callum knows from cool.  He had previously designed such notable automotive paragons as the Ford Escort Cosworth, the Volvo C70, and the Aston Martin DB7, DB9, and (be still my heart) the Vanquish.

He set about transforming Jaguar’s image from that of a maker of elegant-but-rather-stodgy English forms to one of cutting edge beauty and power, and designs such as the XK, the XF, the XJ, and other concepts flowed from design studio to manufacturing floor to roads around the world, shaking up the notion of "Jaguarness" along the way.  And then came the C-X16 concept, which aimed to recapture the glory of one of the all-time legendary sports cars and most iconic automotive designs:  The Jaguar XK-E.

The XK-E (aka Jaguar E-Type) almost needs no introduction.  Close your eyes and think “classic sports car” and chances are the XK-E was one of the two or three that popped into your head (along with a Porsche 911 and perhaps a Shelby Cobra or Ferrari GTO).  It’s unquestionably one of the purest forms to ever define how we think of a sports car, and makes a strong argument for loveliest car of all time.  During its fourteen-year manufacturing run from 1961-1975, the E-Type, both in Coupe and Roadster form, established itself as the car that for legions of aficionados would come to define the very essence of Jaguar.  A hard act to follow indeed.

From C-X16 concept to fully realized car, the F-Type R Coupe is a stunner.

Ian Callum aimed to build on this legendary reputation and develop a pure two-seat heir to the XK-E’s esteemed history.  And so when the C-X16 concept rolled out at the Frankfurt Auto Show in 2011 (as a hybrid electric vehicle), with its classic long hood and short rear deck at once echoing the E-Type’s grand touring proportions while also being unmistakably modern.  The raves and reviews were glowing.

And then the automotive world held its collective breath, because nothing this lovely and perfect ever translates into an actual production car.  But when, at the Los Angeles Auto Show in 2013, the F-Type Coupe was unveiled, it seemed Callum had actually pulled off the impossible:  The new car arrived largely unchanged from the concept.  (The Roadster version of the F-Type had been introduced earlier in that same year at the Goodwood Festival of Speed in England.)

The car I spent a week with was a 2016 F-Type R Coupe  AWD, the latest and lairiest version of the lineup.  Painted in vibrant Italian Racing Red with all exterior bits blacked out courtesy of the optional “Black Pack,” the car’s interior was black on black with lovely red contrasting stitching throughout.  It also came shod with 20” “Gyrodyne” alloy wheels, the look of which complimented the wheel arches beautifully.

(Thanks to my pals at Baron BMW for tossing me the keys for a week.)

Let’s get this out of the way up front:  The F-Type R Coupe is thing of stunning beauty, proportion, and presence.  An eternal design.  Ian Callum nailed it.  Nonpareil.  It’s gorgeous from all angles but especially so from the rear.  The design is timeless and emotional, a symphony of subtle angles and just-right proportions, and it’s certainly one of the loveliest car designs of the last decade.  To my eye, it’s better looking than an Aston Vantage, and plays like a slightly shrunken Vanquish (surely not a coincidence).  If this design doesn’t get Ian Callum knighted by the Queen, there is no justice.

The original XK-E is one of the most iconic of all sports car designs; it's easy to see why.

It makes me happy, strangely comfortable, to know that major corporations in this world bring all their industrial might to bear to create something so mind-numbingly lovely and elegant, because they can and because they want their own name stamped onto the side of it.  It’s almost irrelevant if it performs well as a runner…

…but run it does.  Oh my.

Dreamy Wife and I picked up the car on a Saturday afternoon and did what any two enthusiastic sports car fans would do when tossed the keys to $110,000 car with someone else’s name on the title:  We decided to take it to the grocery store.  So I turned the key and a volcano erupted.

The F-Type R’s exhaust sounds like a Saturn V rocket with attitude issues.  No one will ever be able to say they didn’t hear you coming, and in that sense the exhaust on this car qualifies as a safety device; as the motorcycle guys say, “loud pipes save lives.”  (If that’s true, then the F-Type R Coupe is a rolling cure for cancer.)  It’s the anti-Prius; if you can’t hear this thing coming or going, you need to get your cochlear implants adjusted.  It’s the most carefully engineered symphonic explosion on any street-legal car I’ve ever heard, and the little button on the center console that toggles the exhaust baffles is the most juvenile guilty pleasure.  Really, I just couldn’t help myself.

ualPackaging of the big V8 at a premium; the clam-shell hood a lovely homage.

And then you put the car into gear and things really get interesting.  The F-Type R Coupe is powered by a 5-liter supercharged V8 engine that makes 550-hp at 6500 rpm with 502 lb-ft of torque, driving all four wheels through its 8-speed ZF transmission.  While it weighs a whopping 3800 lbs, it’s packaged as tightly as Serena Williams, all sinew and muscle and rippling purpose: Form following function following form.  Buyer beware; it’s easy for this beast to get out of hand.  The R Coupe has battle axe acceleration; anything more than even a moment’s worth of half-throttle on the streets is irresponsible and dangerous.  The supercharger does its thing without hesitation, and the annoying whine that otherwise might be present is drowned out by the exhaust theatrics.  It’s a terrifying hoot that demands you pay the hell attention.  You can lose this car in a moment, even with electronic nannies keeping watch.  If you’re the type to stab at an accelerator in a “hey, lookie what I can do!” moment of immaturity and inattention, I implore you to buy the smaller engined F-Type.  Those models go plenty fast.  Your loved ones will thank me.

After we dropped off the groceries at home (pro tip: If you take an F-Type to the store choose plastic over paper, because paper bags won’t fit standing up.), we took the car out to some lovely (and largely empty) country roads, and where I know of a few stretches where the brave can open up such a car.  At full throttle, the acceleration is almost gravity-defying, the exhaust at full chat sounding like a naval fusillade.  As Dreamy Wife put it: “Sweetie, you said you wouldn’t scare me.  You’re scaring me.”  The car is stable and planted at speed, though the spoiler that extends at 70mph (and rather charmingly proceeds to black half the already sparse rear view) seems overmatched, especially under heavy braking where the rear of the car squirms in an altogether confidence-uninspiring way.

The R Coupe's handling is largely neutral, a testament to the AWD system always on guard to keep the tail-happy bias of this much power in check.  (And while I haven't had a chance to drive the car's RWD immediate predecessor, I have no doubt about the reports that tail-wagging joy could quickly turn into a massive insurance claim with just the slightest moment of inattention.)  Steering is nicely weighted, especially at speed, though to my taste it's a bit muted and indistinct.  It's exacerbated at slow speeds by the steering rack's need to move the massive rubber on which the car is perched; trying to get all this power down requires massive shoes (255/35s in front, snowplow-sized 295/30s in back).  But paired with an electronically adjustable suspension (just go ahead and leave it on Dynamic Mode), the overall feel is communicative and reassuring.

The cockpit of the R Coupe is a lovely place to spend time, full of theatre (the motorized, disappearing dash vents for example) and comfort (the buckets are perfectly padded and shapely).  The materials, though, are a bit of an odd mix.  While the leather and stitching befit a Range Rover, some value-accounting shows through in other areas.  To wit: The turn-signal blinkers sound like they were borrowed from a mid-1980’s Chrysler Lebaron; the button for the otherwise lovely leather-covered glove box looks like a bare quartz watch battery; and the hinged plastic cover for the cup holders would be down-grade on an entry-level Kia.  These nits certainly don’t ruin the experience but they seem strangely out of place in a car of this stature and price-point.

The interior electronics are where the car really shows its parts-bin warts.  The touch-screen infotainment system shows finger smudges that would make an ID thief giddy, and the system responds to inputs with the expediency of a bored civil servant.  No shiny, intuitive, millisecond-response times here.  Push a button, wait a few beats, and hope for the best.  Not good.  Even the parking sensors get into the game.  They behave like the slow kid in class who is last to notice something obvious, then persists in shouting to everyone who will listen long after the moment in question is past.  Maybe I’m just too accustomed to the modern wonder of the contemporary on-board systems from the German big three but if this is the best Jaguar/Land Rover can do, the English need to up their game.

Quibbling about such trifles in a car with such presence, power, and beauty seems almost rude.  The F-Type is the rare car that I would covet and adore if it only sat in my garage and never ran.  One night I woke up for a sip of water, but found myself walking downstairs, turning on the garage lights, and staring at the Jag.  At 2:00am.  Just stared at it, the car sitting there glinting in the overhead lights, an inanimate object infused by shape and form and substance with something akin to animal presence.  I don’t often imagine cars sleeping, but the contrast of the drama and symphony of the sleek Jag in movement with the car sitting quietly under fluorescent lights in my garage made it easy to imagine an immensely tight and complicated system that sometimes just needed a bit of rest.

This F-Type R Coupe is surely one of the most beautiful cars on the market today.  And for that, we all owe Jaguar (and Ian Callum) thanks.