Sir Steve Redgrave: John Carlos reveals the personal pain that inspired his famous black power salute Carlos's extraordinary life has recently been documented in Dave Zirin's book, The John Carlos Story, and his recollections are peppered with memorable anecdotes. There is the story, for example, of how he was rewarded with silver dollars from Fred Astaire. Then I am regaled with the tale of his teenage desire to represent the US in the Olympic pool, having grown obsessed with the notion of swimming across the English Channel. His is a narrative full of unlikely twists, not least his post-athletics experience of competing in the National Football League, for the Philadelphia Eagles. When we meet at New Broadcasting House, Carlos still carries a limp from his gridiron days. But it seems apt to ask first about the formative influence of his upbringing in Fifties Harlem. "It wasn't tough, it was revealing," he argues. Harlem made me wise and witty, it made me sharp enough to see a lot of things. Everything was laid out for me. Music played such a role in my life. I never played any instruments, but I had the fortune to be born between two of the greatest nightclubs in the world, the Savoy Ballroom and the Cotton Club. I could sit in my room at night and listen to Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Count Basie and Buddy Rich. Even Fred Astaire would come to the Savoy. For him to dance with us and flip us a silver dollar - that was a statement that stayed with me for the rest of my life. Carlos explains, in his streetwise New Yorker manner: "It was a statement that informed my athletics career. It wasn't about the medals, it wasn't even about the competition, as much it was about the type of performance you would give to the folks who had paid to see you. You know the athlete type, man? Look at me, how great I am. But I wanted to be up in the stands, talking to the people. Almost every question of Carlos invites an unconventional response, as I find when I ask him about how he discovered athletics in the first place. "I got into it by breaking the law," he replies. I used to break into freight trains and steal clothes for people in my neighbourhood who didn't have any. Two detectives came to my house and told my father, "Earl, we think John's doing some break-ins. You need to talk to him. Then one said to me, "You have a talent." What talent do I have, sir? "You're a runner."" His account of his thwarted ambition to swim is heartrending, for it was here that Carlos realised the scale of the racial injustice he confronted. He describes how he had told his father, "Daddy, I'm going to be the first black swimmer for America at the Olympics." That was my dream, right there. He said, "Johnny, it's time we talked. I don't want to stop your dreams, but you will never make it to the Olympics as a swimmer. I said, "What are you talking about, daddy, I'm the best in New York. I'm good. He said, "It's not about you being good. Where would you train? You can't go to the Harlem River. You can't go to the public pools. You can't go to the ocean. I said, "But there's a club." You can't join a club. What's the problem? He rubbed his hand. I thought he had a bug-bite, I didn't know what he was doing. The colour of the skin is going to prevent you from going to the Olympics. He knew what was happening in terms of race relations. So, too, did Carlos Jnr by the time he arrived in East Texas on his athletics scholarship. When I landed in Texas, it was mind-blowing for me. I was walking through Dallas-Fort Worth Airport and the first thing I saw was a pair of signs saying, "White restroom, coloured restroom." I thought, "What do they mean?" I began to look at the white restroom and it was pristine. You could have fried eggs on the floor, it was so clean. Then I noticed the coloured restroom and there was water running, toilet paper everywhere, flies. Then the coach began calling me "boy." It really ------ me off. I had my wife and kid with me and I said, "Coach, my name is John Carlos."" Carlos's civil rights activism was becoming more radical. From this point, the course to his salute in Mexico City was set. Having embraced the Olympic Project for Human Rights movement, and heard Dr Martin Luther King's support for a boycott of the 1968 Games, he arrived in Mexico with just one agenda on his mind. As he has admitted since, "I was there for the after-race." The symbolic scene of the salute itself has been replayed countless times. I am intrigued more by whether Carlos believes, given the traumatic aftermath - of being banned from the Olympic Village, and ostracised by the athletics community - of whether he believes the decision was worth such sacrifice. "We were looked at as traitors, as saboteurs, as being unpatriotic," he says. It lasted for about 35 years. You couldn't find a job. Friends who you thought were your friends turned their backs on you. Any money you had in the bank was starting to dissipate. It affected my wife to the point where she couldn't deal with it any more and took her life. But I tell people, "Everything that happened, it could have happened 1,000 times over and I wouldn't have changed it." What I did was necessary, based on the vision that God gave me. It was something that I was born into this world to do. While I cannot imagine the impact these events had on Carlos's life, I can sympathise with an athlete wanting to state his feelings. Sport and politics are always intrinsically linked and John, whether right or wrong, certainly understood this.