I've been reading a lot of complaints lately that interviews with professional athletes are little more than a tape-recording of platitudes and semi-scripted clichés.

And well, you know, at the end of the day, athletes stick to the fundamentals, dig deep and put their best foot forward in interviews. You know, give a good, honest performance.

Rubbish. Professional athletes are trained to pump out a mass-produced variety of inoffensive, vanilla-flavoured oatmeal mash.

I'm no exception. Presented with a microphone to sweat all over at the finish-line, my years of debating, the vocabulary of a law degree and the effervescent opinions usually cascading out of my mouth get euthanized. In their place promenades a sweet, politically-correct porridge.

"You just won a bronze medal, how do you feel?"

Don't appear over-excited. Don't appear under-excited. Acknowledge your opponents. Don't talk about your team-mates. Don't criticise your opponents. Don't criticise your coach, the venue, the equipment your opponents' coach, the officials. Don't appear arrogant. Don't appear disappointed. Don't let your opponent know if you're hurting. Don't fire your opponent up. Don't give away your tactics. Don't let anyone know you are injured. Don't talk about alcohol. Don't talk about caffeine. Don't talk about sleeping tablets. Don't umm, don't aaah, don't swear, don't say you feel like vomiting up all the bircher muesli you ate for breakfast or that you really need to pick your wedgie. Don't..."

"Good! I'm really happy with my race, I learnt a lot out there. I'm really looking forward to getting back into some hard training and seeing what happens down the track..."

About as interesting as curling. The interview may as well have taken place before the race - the answer would have been the same.

Media guidelines imposed by sporting organisations are tricky beasts. No bringing the sport into disrepute. No talking about other rowers. No using a rival sponsor's name. In theory it should be simple - just don't say anything stupid. But at the end of a race, when your heart's racing, legs are throbbing, emotions rolling, diving, crashing and skyrocketing, it's much safer to err on the side of caution than risk crossing the line between Kevin Sheedy quirkiness and divulging too much information or firing up your opposition.

It's a shame. Tears, tantrums and heightened emotion are all part of the fascinating sporting rollercoaster.

It is natural to want to know what makes our sporting heroes tick. What were you thinking, Steve Hooker, moments before you took off up the runway for your winning Olympic vault? What were you thinking, Barry Hall, before you knocked out Brent Staker?

As fans, we also want to share the moment, be a part of the action. We want to know what it feels like to win an AFL Grand Final or Olympic Gold Medal. But as athletes, our emotions are often beyond articulation. A poignant portrait of a player falling to their hands and knees and kissing the turf, or a snapshot of Cathy Freeman sinking into the red Sydney Olympic Athletics track, is worth a thousand interview-induced clichés. These moments are epiphanies of emotion that can't be melded into interview guidelines. Where the hurt is too strong for a million swear words, or the satisfaction is beyond any simile of "good."

Yet we still ask, we still hope. Maybe we also want our heroes' opinions.

We would love to know whether a player thought the goal umpire had made a mistake, whether they thought the surface at Etihad was slippery, or whether they, in their heart of hearts, believed they underperformed.

But these opinions, these fragments of information, these are kept under lock and key. This is the monotony of our sponsor driven, PR-savvy sporting world.

There are some gems who have perfected the line between dull media-wise robot and allowing a vibrant, passionate personality to shine through. Sally McLellan's raw emotion upon winning silver in Beijing was memorable and inspirational. Her unscripted naturalness was endearing.

There is something to be said for unadulterated candour. Andre Agassi's autobiography, while revealing an abundance of imperfections, is captivating, intriguing and inspiring. The struggles going on behind Agassi's forehand veneer mean so much more than any pre-packaged sound bite. The reader gets a true and memorable snapshot into the enigma of sporting success.

Our challenge as athletes is to uphold the values of sportsmanship and intelligence rightly demanded by our sporting employers, but not subdue our innate sporting passion waiting to be shared.

Then, at the end of the day, taking it one interview at a time, we will give 110% to the challenge.

(Kimberley Crow is a member of the Australian Rowing Team.)