Michael "Mike" Morehead

Michael “Mike” Scott Morehead of Centralia, Missouri was born July 3, 1958, in Harvey, Illinois, the son of the late Harold C. Morehead and Mary Elizabeth “Libby” (Baker) Morehead, formerly of Paris, Missouri.

Mike is survived by his sister, Michelle (Nelson) Gibler of Centralia, Missouri; his father’s life partner, Penny Petty of Paris, Missouri; his sister-in-law, Lura Briscoe of Steamboat Springs, Colorado; his special niece and nephew, Paige Clark and Brice Gibler of Missouri; as well as great-nephews, cousins, and many friends. He was preceded in death by his brother, Jeffrey Morehead, in addition to his parents and grandparents.

Raised in Park Forest, Illinois, Mike graduated from Rich East High School in 1976 and attended Southern Illinois University. In high school, he ran cross-country and was an all-around gymnast. During that time, he and his like-minded band of wild friends turned an innocent patch of woods into a dirt-bike trail equipped with highly questionable bike ramps because Mike had decided that the local parks “were just not that fun”—early evidence of the energy, athleticism, and appetite for adventure that would follow him throughout his life.

Mike arrived in this world a free spirit: allergic to rules, deeply suspicious of authority, endlessly curious, and determined to figure out exactly how things worked. He was exceptionally well-read, fiercely independent, and rarely short on an opinion—particularly when the subjects were international politics, government, fitness, nutrition, weather, or anything else that interested him more than conventional small talk.

Even as a teenager, adventure seemed to find him—or perhaps more accurately, Mike went looking for it. At age 14, before his freshman year of high school, he and a friend climbed aboard their 10-speed bicycles and rode roughly 350 miles from the south side of Chicago to Paris, Missouri. Armed with little more than paper maps and camping gear, the boys pedaled across the Midwest, knocking on farmhouse doors along the way to ask permission to pitch a tent for the night.

That story was less an exception than a preview.

Mike truly lived several lives in one lifetime—roughly 30 years in the Chicago area, 10 in Colorado, and nearly 30 in Islamorada, Florida among the Florida Keys and Bahamas. He lived his final 2 years in Centralia, Missouri to reconnect with his parents and sister. Of all the places he called home, he was happiest and most at ease on the ocean in the Keys, where the people, freedom and rhythm of island life suited him perfectly.

Over the years, Mike traveled the country as an industrial power maintenance technician, worked as a mechanic, owned and worked a small ranch in the Rockies, rode horses, raced snow chariots, repaired ski lifts, served in the Merchant Marine in Somalia, captained yachts, fixed boats, sailed seas, survived hurricanes, rode motorcycles, literally swam with sharks, and pursued fitness and nutrition with an intensity that rarely allowed for half measures.

Friends knew him as a mechanical genius. Give Mike a machine, an engine, a boat, or nearly anything with moving parts, and chances were good he wanted to know how it worked—and believed he could make it work better.

He was fearless. He loved fast cars, trucks, motorcycles, boats, horses, inline skates, and bicycles—essentially anything capable of providing speed, challenge, freedom, or just enough danger to keep things interesting.

Of all his pursuits, however, cycling may have been his favorite. For years, Mike could be found riding fast and furious along the beautiful stretch of U.S. Highway 1 through the Florida Keys, becoming a familiar sight to those who traveled the road regularly. He lived on the water aboard his beloved sailboat for nearly 30 years and spent long stretches docked in the Bahamas, collecting enough wild stories—and friends—along the way to fill several lifetimes.

He was, without question, a lifelong thrill-seeker. His father was certain that if Mike managed to live to age 30, it would be a miracle—and every year after that should be considered a bonus. Mike did his best throughout the decades to continue testing that theory, providing his parents with more figurative “heart attacks” than they probably cared to count.

Mike tested authority, pushed boundaries, occasionally made a mess, and sometimes even managed to clean it up. He tried more than once to outrun trouble, convention, expectations, and perhaps even himself—and succeeded more times than anyone had a right to expect.

Structure was torture to him. Mainstream topics bored him. Organized religion infuriated him. He questioned institutions, challenged assumptions, distrusted easy answers, played with words, studied science, policy, mechanics, and weather, and could turn nearly any conversation into a spirited debate.

Above all, he lived intensely and on his own terms.

In later years, Mike would often reflect on his life by saying, “No one had more fun.” He was also fond of saying that he was glad he had “front-loaded life”—packing as much living, traveling, riding, sailing, exploring, and adventure as possible into the years he was given. When melanoma ultimately shortened that time, there could be little argument that Mike had already made extraordinary use of it.

If he were still here, he would tell the rest of us to go outside and play, ride something thrilling, learn how something works, question the people in charge, and never become so sensible that life stops being fun.

As one might expect, there will be no services—and certainly no standing still—to honor Mike. He requested instead that his ashes be tossed into the winds and waters of his favorite places.

Rest in peace, “Mike on a Bike.”

And wherever you are, try your best to finally give your parents a decent night’s rest.