The road never tells you where the next curve is…
Or if the bridge is out.
But we ride  anyway....we ride
He’s seen fists fly in bars where the lights don’t reach.
Ran cold steel through men who crossed the wrong line.
Smuggled heat through desert nights with no sleep.
Buried secrets in places even God won’t find.
He’s lost brothers to bullets and blood to revenge.
Built his name on silence and scars.
But when his brother said “I’ve got cancer, man”…
It cracked something deeper than prison bars.
He didn’t flinch when the world burned down.
But this time, he dropped his guard.
And when a man like that gives you a hug…
You know you’re standing in sacred ground.
He’s there for that ride — through the fire, through the fear.
Through the chemo, the breakdown, the tear.
He’s there for that ride — not just chrome and pride.
But the kind where your soul don’t hide.
He’s there for that ride — no map, no plan.
Just a brother holding a brother’s hand.
He’s there for that ride…
And that’s where the healing begins.
He’s watched empires fall in the rearview mirror.
Held dying men who whispered their last sin.
He’s been judge, jury, and ghost in the corner.
But this time, he’s just a friend walking in.
He brings coffee and silence to the hospital chair.
No patch, no leather, no mask.
Just two men staring down the same damn fear.
And one of them finally asks.
“What if this is the last ride we take?”
And the other just nods, no lie.
Because when a man like that drops a tear…
You know he ain’t saying goodbye.
He’s there for that ride — through the fire, through the fear.
Through the chemo, the breakdown, the tear.
He’s there for that ride — not just chrome and pride.
But the kind where your soul don’t hide.
He’s there for that ride — no map, no plan.
Just a brother holding a brother’s hand.
He’s there for that ride…
And that’s where the healing begins.
They ride slow now, no need to race fate.
The wind don’t ask for permission.
He watches his brother breathe in the sunset.
And prays for remission.
They’ve done things they’ll never confess.
But this — this is the truth they own.
That when the road goes dark and the bridges break…
You don’t ride it alone.
Being a brother ain’t just blood or patch.
It’s showing up when the world turns cold.
It’s knowing the weight of a single tear.
And carrying it like gold.
It’s not the fights you win or the wars you start.
It’s the silence you share when a heart falls apart.
The road never tells you where the next curve is…
Or if the bridge is out.
But if you’ve got a brother beside you…
You ride ......you ride .....you ride
 if you’ve got a brother beside you…
You ride ......you ride .....you ride
..you ....ride .....you..... ride.....
All rights reserved by songwriter and producer Edwin H. Balder.
For more ride-and-rock tracks, click here: https://soundcloud.com/edwin-balder/sets/rusty-marshall-band?si=c5040230a7334213b5d7609527997d7c&utm_source=clipboard&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=social_sharing

That Ride Rusty Marshall Band

In the shadows of Apache Junction, at the foot of the majestic Superstition Mountains, sits a weathered hacienda. This desert oasis is home to an enigmatic figure, a songwriter whose journey reads like a long, dusty road of honky-tonk bars and college cafeterias. He wasn't chasing fame or glitter; instead, he chose the soul-crushing beauty of music for music's sake.

Years spent hunched over sticky barroom tables and scribbling lyrics on napkins earned him a reputation—not in the spotlight but in the back rooms where deals are made. He wrote melodies that found their way into the hearts of stars who had lost their own muse. He sold his creations for cash, with no recognition, but the whisper of his songs carried the weight of his soul.

Finally, he bought this piece of desert paradise—a stable income from his timeless songs allowed him to live comfortably, if anonymously. Here in this hacienda, with his family beside him and the mountains as his backdrop, he found the peace to write hits under his own name. He chuckled at the irony that now, without chasing fame, he could create music that brought him joy.

In the end, it was never about the spotlight. It was about the journey, the stories, and the songs that wrote themselves through his life. As the sun set behind the Superstitions, casting long shadows over the hacienda, he strummed his guitar and sang—content, unknown, and unburdened by the world's gaze.


Copyright 2019 Edwin H. Balder

I may be dead when fame comes but my real glory was always JULIE & The Kids. Thank you for such love

That Ride Rusty Marshall Band

Edwin Balder