No one will ever mistake this for a Nike commercial, and aspiring Olympians for the 2012 games should know their slots aren’t in jeopardy. But I am a triathlete-in-training, and there are few more beautiful or hospitable settings to test one’s mettle – or recuperative ability – than in the mountains, lakes and welcoming communities that make our state an outdoorsman’s paradise.

Last month was my first Timberman Triathlon, an annual trial of human endurance and sanity that includes a 1.2-mile swim in Lake Winnipesaukee, a 56-mile bike ride down around Concord and back through Loudon, and a 13.1-mile run back around the lake. Breathtaking and daunting, it was also hot and miserable that Sunday, 90-plus degrees with humidity that sapped strength and antiperspirant. Cheering me on the sidelines, my wife and kids could only be described as good sports. And perhaps even bigger gluttons for punishment than those of us in the race.

Adrenaline helped to make the first two legs – the swim and bike ride – remarkably painless. Mortality (i.e., cramping), however, set in as I abandoned my bike for the final stretch. It was that last leg, the run, when my feet hit the ground and my thighs felt like rubber bands stretched to the point of snapping, when I had doubts for the first time. Those first miles in the afternoon swelter were unbearable. Quitting didn’t seem like such an awful idea.

Then something happened. Somewhere in Gilford, doors began opening. Homeowners strode onto their front lawns along the race route, clapping, cheering us on, shouting words of encouragement, and even spraying us with garden hoses. In one area, kids from the Laconia High hockey team were handing us shaved ice. All may seem like tiny things, incidental kindnesses, but for someone struggling to finish, it meant everything. Where most would look at a race like this as an inconvenience, with roads shut down and littered with cups and trash, these communities had adopted this event – and these neighbors in running shoes, some from far away – as their own. It was distinctively New Hampshire.

I crossed the finish line that day. There was no “Chariots of Fire” theme or celebratory champagne, but a trip to the medical tent, an infusion of saline, and a hug from my family. And yet again affirmation of the warm-heartedness of the folks who make our state so uniquely wonderful to call home.