Three countries. 32 days. 2,000km. 29 towns. Six flat tires. One new tire. And one fantastic traveling partner. I discovered that all roads, at least the ones I took, do lead to Rome.

I have been holding on to this story, waiting for the right moment to share it. Since I’m now on Rome’s doorstep—the city is 20 km away—now is a good time.

Today was supposed to be an easy one. A 57 km ride down the coast from Cecina to Follonica, but nature has a way of humbling us.

When I left La Spezia, the streets in the morning were surprisingly quiet. Storefronts shuttered and few people about. I was curious about a large statue that rose above the public gardens. I spun my bike around and inspected it closer.

Without exception, the feedback was to avoid Genoa. The traffic is terrible. It will take you a long time to get through the city, they said.

Marcus and I are now in Italy. It took us 18 days to cut a line through France. When we left Nice (France) yesterday, I let fatigue determine our destination.

Standing between me and Nice, my next destination was a collection of mountains called the Massif de l'Esterel. There is a road that follows the coast around the mountains, but my cycle map and Google Maps didn’t offer that option. They said to go up and over the mountain, with a total climb of more than 1,400 feet. Okay, let’s go.

Some of you might have been wondering where the heck I’ve been since I last left you in Orange. Out on some bike rides is where, which largely have been uneventful, except a few days of ferocious wind.

Yesterday, I arrived in Orange from the north, as travelers in ancient times would have. Now, as then, visitors are greeted by the imposing triumphal arch erected by the Romans 2,000 years ago.

With a new back tire, Marcus and I are back in the game. We both felt good today, rolling 124 km along the Via Rhona, a mostly paved path that follows the Rhone River, apparently the only major European river that flows into the Mediterranean.

There are days when the wheels are spinning and I’m riding carefree. And then there are days like yesterday. The French word to describe the day is probably…Merde!

Cathy and Patrick were still in their pajamas welcoming the morning with a coffee. After chatting a bit, I asked if I could take their photo. Cathy laughed and blushed. She wasn’t prepared for a photo first thing in the morning.

The joy of travel is the unexpected. Before I left Reims, I checked my cycle map, which suggested a route different than Google Maps.

I don’t typically name inanimate objects, like some people name their cars. If I did name my first car, it would have been called Rusty. Since I would be spending a lot of time with my bike, I thought it deserved a name.

Thanks to my overnight hosts, Sarah and Paul, I left Rochester loaded with tuna and cucumber sandwiches, fruit and banana cake. Like pilgrims have for hundreds of years, my goal was to ride to Canterbury, some 50 km away.

Cycling 2,400 km from London to Rome is the most ambitious (and challenging) thing I've undertaken. I've long had a thirst for adventure.