Growing Up As The Fastest 10-Year-Old Girl In America

Ashlyn Mundell can run faster than basically any other living person her age. She's also ten years old. It's complicated.
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Photo by Rod Knowlton.

Ashlyn Mundell turns 10 years old today. She recently began the fourth grade at Summit Elementary School in Casper, Wyoming. Last year, on the eve of her ninth birthday, she became the greatest standing long-jumper her age the world has ever seen.

The early September sun washed the historic West Seattle Stadium. Moments earlier, having never attempted the event before in her life—not in competition, not in practice—Ashlyn launched her pink size 1 ½ racing spikes into the sand at a distance of 7 feet, 7 inches. It’s a mark greater than any 8- or 9-year-old girl before her in recorded history. Also: it didn’t count.

Bret Mundell looks up from the thin, white tape measure threaded through his fingers, and the grin on his face collapses. Not again. They’ve already gone through this once, when Ashlyn’s American record for 8-year-olds in the 400 meters was asterisked as “unofficial” because there wasn’t a United States Track & Field judge present to witness it. Bret’s still adjusting to the reality that his daughter is a threat to history every time she steps on the track. He scans the previous records displayed on his phone—6-08 ¾ set by an 8-year-old in 2003; 7-02 set by a 9-year-old in 2011—and knows his daughter has shattered them both.

Now he’s running, scrambling, searching to find somebody, anybody who can make it real. Bret gets the attention of an official wandering the infield and returns to Ashlyn, takes her aside and provides instruction.

Toe the line, bend your knees and jump. Don’t fall backward—that’ll ruin the mark. Adjust your footing. Rock your toes and heels off the ground and propel yourself forward.

It’s a bit overwhelming, but Ashlyn thinks she understands. With a deep breath, she sidles up to the white board, fixes her feet in a parallel position and takes flight. Again, officially, she’s set two world records. But like most sequels, her mark of 7-04 ¼ fails to match the original. Yes, it’s farther than 6-08 ¾. Yes, it’s greater than 7-02. But it’s not 7 feet, 7 inches, so Bret, exuding an unshakable confidence in his daughter’s outsize talent, tries once more to offer guidance. Until…

“Dad,” Ashlyn whispers, brushing the sand off her body, “can we go to the beach now?”

Ashlyn never replicated her first jump. Whatever it was that gave her that initial burst was gone.

“The more we told her, the worse she did,” Bret says now, recalling the memory. “So maybe we should just eat junk food and stand up without blocks when she races from now on. I don’t know what to do with this kid sometimes. Weird stuff happens.”

Photo by Rod Knowlton.

Talk to Bret for long enough, and you’ll hear this story—the quagmired embodiment of everything right and wrong about this 10-year-old’s burgeoning athletic career distilled into a series of jumps. Her gifts are evident, so much so that they have awakened a desire within the Mundells’ only child to one day compete as a member of the United States Olympic team. But the thing that makes Ashlyn so special—her prodigious and undeniable talent—is making it more and more difficult to avoid the accompanying pressures.  

The easy conclusion, of course, is that chasing the Olympics at Ashlyn’s age is preposterous. But listen to Bret for long enough, and you can’t help feeling that this quest is perhaps not as ridiculous as it seems. And yet even if you’re able to curb your doubts, it’s another thing entirely to indulge such a dream.

“It’s agonizing as a parent knowing your kid can do something much greater than the performance that comes out,” Bret says. “It makes you feel like you’re failing as a coach and as a parent to the level of her talent. So the question becomes, What more can I do? But even more than that—and I haven’t gotten this part quite figured out yet—is how much mores should I do?”

It’s a riddle he’s desperate to solve. Bret has accomplished nearly everything he has ever set out to do, and yet he also knows more than most the terrible toll such a pursuit may take on a child. Now he needs to determine just how hard he can push Ashlyn without compromising her development away from the track. Bret wants to help Ashlyn reach her dream, but he has to decide what price he and his daughter will pay to get there.


On Sunday, competing in the 50 meters at Kelly Walsh High School in Casper, Ashlyn set another world record; her 7.36 second time was faster than the record owned by Jennifer Kunze since she ran it in 7.40 back in November of 2007, in Erfurt. Ashlyn then proceeded to reset her own 9-year-old record in the standing long jump—a record that she established as an 8-year-old—by leaping 8-03 to surpass both her own mark of 7-04 ¼ set in Seattle and the 10-year-old girls record of 8-01 held by Tierra Crockrell of the United States in 2012. Ashlyn has now broken the current and next year’s age group world record in the standing long jump two years in a row. She has four total youth world records. 

The day after setting her first two, Ashlyn rang in her ninth birthday at a local arcade, winning an oversized stuffed bear that has since served as a bedtime companion. The family then flew home to its lavish estate in Casper, the town where Bret and his wife, Angela, first met in high school and where the couple runs Mundell Enterprises, a lucrative oil and gas company that generates an estimated $10 million annually. Ashlyn, her blond hair tied in a ponytail, attended her first day of third grade the following Monday. Each week at Summit Elementary begins with an opportunity to share stories from the previous weekend. Students sprawl out on a blue rug adorned with images of jackals and kangaroos, listening attentively to one another’s stories.

They are often charmingly ordinary: tales of walking dogs, baking brownies with mom and finishing chapter books. It wasn’t until Ashlyn addressed the rest of the room, her life presented in this context, that her teachers fully comprehended the magnitude of her accomplishments.

“When you listen to it coming out of her mouth, it’s just like, ‘Oh, my gosh,’” Ashlyn’s third-grade math teacher, Jennifer Wilson, says. “It’s funny, because the other kids don’t really understand. They don’t have a grasp of what she’s saying. It just sounds like, ‘I walked a dog,’ and it gets the same response from the rest of the class.”

Photo by Bret Mundell.

That sense of normalcy is the desired effect of the Mundells’ attempt to secure at least some convention amid Ashlyn’s decidedly unique upbringing. As with many current and prospective Olympians, she has had numerous opportunities to relocate, including interest from the prestigious IMG Academy in Bradenton, Florida. But her family values its Wyoming roots and has vowed to exhaust all possibilities to remain.

Staying in Casper, though, means frequent travel is a necessity; the winters are long, snow is abundant and there is no indoor track. The choice is either to layer up and brave the cold outside during practice or dodge janitors while turning sharp corners in the school’s hallways.

A journey that already borders on impossible becomes even more ambitious when it takes place in the least populated state in America.

“I think the greatest accomplishment in my life will be helping her attain the unattainable goal,” Bret says, jaw bristling with a graying beard, a thatch of dark hair buried underneath a baseball cap. “And if we can do that, then I believe she will have a base for accomplishing anything she wants in her life. I think other things in her life will come very easy in comparison. So to be a good businesswoman, or to be a good mother or to be a good mentor, will be very easy in comparison to accomplishing this goal if we can in fact accomplish it.”

To see where that vision comes from, one should perhaps begin not with Mundell Enterprise’s current status and financial potency, but with the arrangements Bret made during a high-achieving childhood in which, by the time he reached high school, he had applied for an underage worker’s permit and driver’s license so he could willingly bag groceries.

Rather than simply save, he’d carry his wages in his pockets at school as a security blanket, desperate to be celebrated as the straight-A student, the track star, the savvy bookie with principals and coaches among his clientele, the kid with his own car and the freshest pair of Jordans. Anything but the kid whose parents divorced when, now that he thinks about it, he was just Ashlyn’s age.

Photo by Dan Cepeda.

Bret’s own furious work ethic, which now allows for just four hours of sleep each night, is why Ashlyn will never hurt for money. That wealth was won at the expense of time with his daughter, among many other things.

Bret was not far from the father who forced his child into youth sports. Instead, the whirlwind began with a local track competition when Ashlyn was 7, which turned into a state championship, which snowballed into a club coach’s persuading Bret to accompany Ashlyn to a regional meet the following week. Bret, convinced his daughter would get beat handily, was reluctant to go. He was interested in neither the lengthy drive nor in exposing her to humiliation that would take away from her confidence.  

But then Ashlyn set two track records at Sports Authority Stadium in Parker, Colorado. Still not a believer, Bret stipulated that she win the 100 meters, 200 meters and 400 meters at a national qualifier if she wanted to attend the ESPN-sponsored AAU Club National Championships. She called his bluff, and set records in all three.

This all happened five weeks after Ashlyn first stepped on a track.

“I set the bar high enough that she wouldn’t get over it, and she continued to get over it,” Bret says. “So what do you do with a kid like that? She’s accomplished so much that I don’t know what’s truly real and what’s not anymore.”

Two years have passed since the madness of high-class track and field was introduced into Bret and Angela’s world. What was once merely a hobby has become all-consuming.

They’re chasing the dream, ardent in the belief that whatever adversity Ashlyn faces—failure, injury, embarrassment—will fade; what will remain, they maintain, is an education espousing the virtues of hard work that she can draw from for the rest of her life.

“I realized what the environment was, and I had to make adjustments to how she was trained and how she needed to mentally prepare,” Bret says. “Because otherwise I was taking a lamb to slaughter.”

Here comes the double-edged nature of the pursuit. While the ideologies of determination and fortitude are principles of the undisputable, Ashlyn has nearly a decade before the 2024 Olympics, when she will turn 19. Why not administer a sunnier approach? Does this all have to happen right now, right away?

Regardless of the measures Bret and Angela have taken to preserve Ashlyn’s childhood, the most significant being the decision to stay in Wyoming, there remains the reality that the pressures ascribed to Ashlyn are antithetical to the experience of being a child. Aren’t 10-year-olds kind of supposed to be lambs? I ask.

Bret and Angela say no, fearing complacency more than they welcome comfort. Bret reiterates that the approach is necessary.

“But she’s not a normal 10-year-old,” Bret says. The words hang in the air a few seconds. He is careful to say this just right. “She’s different—different in the fact that she’s got gifts, and, more importantly, a detailed comprehension of what it takes to operate at an extremely high level. And that to the outside world may seem like pressure, but in my mind it’s preparation. In my mind it’s love. Because if she’s going to participate in an environment without proper preparation, all I’m doing is preparing her to fail.”

Photo by Rod Knowlton.

The notion of introducing children to competitive environments early in life tends to spur a burst of righteous indignation, with those who pose judgment uttering the word sports with an inflection normally reserved for unwanted party guests.

In this sense, Ashlyn’s story is emblematic of larger issues—a bewildering amalgam of questions concerning parenting, child development and the lengths we take to cultivate nurture and encourage greatness. Are Bret and Angela dedicated or delusional? Ambitious or obsessive? Caring or hazardous? What, in the end, do you do with a child like that?

“I see it as wanting to live without regret,” says Angela, the taciturn emotional anchor of the family. “When someone is willing to put that kind of effort and has that kind of talent, I don’t want the regret of holding them back. I don’t think that’s fair.”

A stigma surrounds parents like the Mundells: that they’re living vicariously through their daughter, hemorrhaging her future for a trivial athletic achievement.

“What will the effects of this be in the long run? I think it’s hard to say,” Wilson, Ashlyn’s math teacher, says. “I mean, I would be worried about that for my own children. But I don’t know. If they love what they’re doing, it seems OK. But when they start to resent the sport or the pressure gets to them, maybe that’s the point when you start to back off.”

Indeed, Bret and Angela fear such resentment, but it doesn’t appear to have arrived just yet. At least for now, birthday invitations are declined, sleepovers are postponed and fruit is substituted for fries at dinner, all seemingly on Ashlyn’s own accord.

In turn, Bret and Angela are spending incalculable hours away from home and their business—not to mention nearly $100,000 annually for the proper coaching, nutrition, equipment and travel—years before they even get a chance to see whether the ultimate goal, an Olympics, is within reach.

Photo by Bret Mundell.

“I know how difficult it’s going to be and how long the odds are stacked against us trying to chase this down,” says Bret, who, to reiterate, is budgeting approximately twice the median household income in America in service of the goal.

Many a 10-year-old has had dreams of playing professional sports tempered by parents. Yet if one of Ashlyn’s classmates longed to be an NFL quarterback, he could at least hope to earn a starting role or nab a reserve spot on one of 32 professional teams; Ashlyn, comparatively, can secure an Olympic bid only by being one of the three fastest women in a country of 320 million people once every four years.


Bret is a thoughtful conversationalist, even in an exhausted state, and he is willing to talk about anything. The only subject he is evasive about is his father

Mike Mundell was an electrical contractor and a successful entrepreneur. He divorced Bret’s mother when Bret was 8, and, though Bret still sees his father, he tends to attribute much of his disposition, particularly in regard to his ambitions, to his dad.

As is now the case with Ashlyn, Bret was coached by his father while participating in youth sports. He particularly excelled in wrestling, where, as his parents recall, between the ages of 6 and 16 he never lost a match in Wyoming.

He was wiry, explosive and quick for his size, but what separated Bret from the rest of the competition, he says, was the mentality instilled by his father that he was truly unstoppable in a way that, “compared to today’s standards, was to an aggressive point.”

Photo by Bret Mundell.

Mike demanded that Bret was always last at the local Boys and Girls club to quit. If everyone else on the team ran 10 laps, Bret ran 14. When for whatever reason 14 wasn’t enough, Bret says, Mike would make him keep running until all others at practice had packed their bags and left. “It wouldn’t matter what the reps said or what the expectation was. There was always one extra, two extra, three extra, four extra.”

Bret commends his father’s influence as fundamental to his work ethic, whether it was balancing academics with extracurriculars or how he maintains his business while traveling with Ashlyn across the country today. But the portrait of Mike that emerges from these stories is not a flattering one. “He knew how to get in my face and push my buttons, make me mad and stoke that fire and sharpen my desire to the point that it split atoms, almost like a fight dog on a chain,” Bret says. “He’d shake me and rattle me and get me woke up, get me mad, and then focus me in a single direction and cut me lose.”

Bret tried to capture his father’s heart, hold his attention and please him, and so he sought to win every match with the hope that Mike would dispense his approval—an incomparable rush that became essential following the divorce. This is where Bret’s desire to test himself began, and it has never really gone away.

“I was afraid to tell him I couldn’t win,” Bret says. “If I was going to spend time with him, that’s what the expectation was.

“I enjoyed the challenge and the atmosphere, but I think more importantly I enjoyed the time with my dad. This was our one-one-one time. We’d get in the car—he always had the latest, greatest, newest Corvette—and when you’re a kid, that’s exciting. It was our time to jump in the car together and drive too fast down the highway and listen to loud music. That was our thing…”

He is silent for a few moments. These are not things he’s used to thinking about. The pace in which Bret lives his life leaves little time for reflection.

“…And then, for various reasons, I suppose, he chose to become distant in our lives. I think when you’re young, you think: ‘What am I doing wrong? Am I not trying hard enough?’ So I think that made me try even harder when I was around him. It made me want to be a better student, a better athlete, because I felt that I needed to be that person to gain praise from my dad and for him to want to be around me. Because it seemed like those were the happy times, when we were working hard toward something and accomplishing something … I think it definitely made me think I wasn’t doing enough.”

Bret has come to see the ramifications of his father’s influence in everything he does. His education, his business, his marriage and his relationship with Ashlyn have all been affected by his upbringing.

“If I’m criticized of anything, it’s doing everything to excess,” he says.

“It turned me into someone who was uncontrollably motivated, to the point where I had to do so much more and be so much more and provide more and more security and more and more opportunity for her. I was so absorbed in the business and other activities because I thought that was what I needed to do to give them what I felt I didn’t have. I never wanted them to feel how I felt.”


Here’s how Ashlyn describes what goes on in her head before a race:

“Sometimes it’s overwhelming, because you’re thinking about all these things—‘I have to do this, I have to do that’—and it’s like, your body, it’s very nervous and it makes me nervous to think about all the things you have to do, and it’s kind of like I know my parents will be mad at me if I don’t do these things. My mind tells my body you have to do these things, or else people are going to be mad at you. Because what if I don’t do this? Will people be mad at me? Will people quit? Will people not respect me anymore?”

She takes a deep breath.

“I know they’ll support me and say, ‘I’m proud of you, you tried your best,’ but I think sometimes my mind doesn’t know that. I think that’s very hard for me to take in if I don’t do those.”

Ashlyn is unusually perceptive for her age, and with that recognition breeds a preoccupation with the concept of respect—the idea that she owes it to those who have helped her to perform well on the track. She sometimes struggles getting out of the blocks as a result, every second of silence spent waiting for the starter’s gun an opportunity for her thoughts to drift elsewhere.

Such was the case during the 60 meters at the USATF Colorado Indoor Championship in February.

Running unattached as the heavy favorite while donning an authentic (and expensive) Team USA flight suit Bret purchased specifically tailored to her dimensions, Ashlyn stumbled out of the blocks and nearly fell face forward onto the track before harnessing her momentum to win the race with a time of 9.07 seconds.

The ease with which she won was expected—she is seriously fast, a diminutive whirlwind of chopping arms and spinning legs—but the sight was still shocking. Even with the shaky start, Ashlyn was always in control, and the gulf in class between her and the rest of the competition was never anything less than glaring.

After the meet, Ashlyn summoned Bret to lean forward for a hug, pinning her medals on his jacket and flashing a smile.

In this way, Ashlyn is both precocious and preordained; preternaturally mature; cognizant not only of the scale of her objective, but its demands on the rest of the family. Last November, Ashlyn’s class assigned to write about what they were thankful for:

Dear Daddy,

I’m so lucky to have a dad that makes my dreams come true, I’m so thankful for you, if I didn’t have a such an amazing dad I wouldn’t have a awesome life, I still can’t believe that you make your work time my time and I love you for that, but that not all, you stay up late to get your work done then, you tell me helpful tips to become successful. Sometimes, when you really need to get the building done you still! go to my workout all the time. I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have you in my life, and I’m thankful you are.

You one and only,



“Buggaly” is the name of a former imaginary friend of Ashlyn’s whom Bret delights in teasing her about. Ashlyn finds it funny, too. She could be described, accurately, as cute. But there is something jarring about her awareness of what her parents have sacrificed.

Whether Ashlyn can differentiate between the sacrifices themselves and whether it’s even advisable to make them in the first place is more difficult to ascertain, though the way she says, “Sometimes, I think I’ve trained my whole life for 10 seconds,” and, “My mind thinks that if I don’t run the races how I’m supposed to, I’m going to die,” at the very least suggests she’s operating on a different level than most of her peers.

On her sixth birthday, she asked guests to donate the gifts originally intended for her to a homeless shelter on her own volition because, as she later explained, she “wanted to help the needy.”

It’s hard to believe this is the same child who traffics in the world of make-believe.

“It’s like they’re handing it to me on a silver platter,” Ashlyn says. “All of this stuff that my mother and father have done for me is so much that all I have to do is put the effort in to get it. They’re the ones who have to worry about all the stuff like getting me the right equipment and the food and the protein drinks and the blocks and spikes and clothes.

“I think the least I can do is run at the top of my level and try my best.”


Of the numerous stories Bret tells to illustrate Ashlyn’s work ethic, two are told the most.

The first takes place in a hotel in Iowa after she missed the finals at the Drake Relays. Bret got too fancy and instructed Ashlyn to attempt an advanced technique, a shift in her hips that resulted in a breakdown of her otherwise flawless mechanics. She failed to medal despite leading the 100-meter race through the first 25 meters.

“That was daddy’s fault,” he said, trying to console her with a hug as she sulked off the track. Ashlyn, disappointed, regrouped and continued to process what went wrong as the family returned to the hotel, ate dinner and retired to their room around 10 p.m. Everyone was exhausted. Angela and Bret’s mother, Linda—a consistent presence on road trips as Ashlyn’s unofficial photographer—went downstairs to fetch a bag from the car as Bret kicked off his shoes and Ashlyn prepared for bed.

“Dad,” she murmured, “is it really true that to be the best you have to be willing to do what no one else is willing to do?” Bret paused for a second, searching for the right words to say.

“And I said, ‘Yeah, sweetheart,’” Bret says with a triumphant gleam. “And I grabbed my pillow and bunched it up. Then she looked right at me, dead serious, and said, ‘Well get up then.’ I said, ‘What?’ She said: ‘Well, get up. Let’s go do our workout.’

Photo by Rod Knowlton.

“I just had to smile. It was one of my proudest moments. I put my shoes on and we went down and we worked from 11 o’clock to 1 in the morning. She did her band routine, various core routines. And she was so proud of herself that when she got in the elevator going down to the first floor, she said, “Dad, you do this all the time, don’t you?’ And I said, ‘Yeah.’ And she hugged me. So I think she has a very deep understanding of what it takes to be the best.”

The second story involves excessive vomiting.

Ashlyn was in Seattle training with her personal coach, Mike Cunliffe, who has worked with elite athletes ranging from youth national champions to Olympians, and she was sick and it was raining and she must have puked at least four times. Cunliffe told Ashlyn that if she didn’t feel well she could shut it down for the day, and Ashlyn, her hands on her knees, leered at Cunliffe and dismissed the offer.

“She’s the fastest athlete I’ve had, and that includes my own daughter,” Cunliffe gushes, referring to Hannah Cunliffe, a sophomore at Oklahoma who qualified to compete at the 2015 NCAA Indoor Championships and owns multiple high school records. “From the DNA perspective, I think she has it. I don’t see why not. So it’s about continuing to develop that piece and making sure she continues to have a passion for the sport.”

Cunliffe has applied the same coaching principles in training Ashlyn as he did with his daughter—which is to say, contrary to a considerable faction of coaches in America. He prescribes daily workouts via text focusing on physical development, but equally important is the emphasis on avoiding burnout. Chronic stress on account of feeling shackled to an Olympic bid and held hostage by the perception of disappointing her parents could lead to Ashlyn flaming out, abandoning athletics and resenting a childhood that revolved around a part of her life she’d rather forget.

Photo by Dan Cepeda.

To preemptively avoid such an outcome, Hannah trained only three days a week from ages 8 to 14, adding a day when she was 15, and participated in only 12 meets a year. Ashlyn receives a similar dosage, which Cunliffe says puts her on the right side of the gap between traditional coaching philosophies and contemporary science.

“Asia and Europe have a much better grasp of the physiology of youth development and understanding the growth cycles and loading,” he says. “The Americans get loaded up and beat to death, and that’s why a lot of our elite youth don’t develop into Olympians. It’s not for a lack of DNA capacity; it’s because when they were growing up, their middle school or high school coaches didn’t know what they were doing and pounded them into the dirt.”

Of all the obstacles Ashlyn faces in Wyoming, coaching will not be an issue. The five-figure salary Bret pays Cunliffe for his services will ensure that.

Here’s one last story. Cunliffe tells this one, but it’s not about Ashlyn. It’s about Bret, and how Ashlyn’s two world records that fateful day in Seattle were originally expected to come in the 50 and the 60. The standing long jump, as far as world records go, was nothing more than happenstance. She had never practiced the event before establishing the mark and just happened to test her leaping abilities in the same venue as a USTF official.

Again, the main event was the 60, and Ashlyn spent the moments leading up to the race not with a regimented warmup, but by practicing cartwheels and flips with one of Cunliffe’s daughters in the infield grass. The culmination of months of hard work and practice—of the immeasurable material and emotional resources exhausted for this one moment—was a burst of the sort of spontaneous recreation more typically associated with an 8-year-old girl eager to celebrate her ninth birthday. She went on to miss out on setting the record by fractions of a second. 

Mike smiles at the memory. “He’s in his growing phase still,” he explains, “and I say: ‘Why are you upset? You just broke the world record.’”

Bret, seething, struggled to contain his frustration. Everything was set up perfectly. Ashlyn had beaten the mark a dozen times in practice, and it might have been undone by a rare slip in discipline. “I know,” he said, agitated. “But we could’ve gotten more.”

“Sure,” Cunliffe replied, “but look at your kid.” He nodded his head at the two little girls who had resumed tumbling in the infield, two lambs frolicking in the grass. Any semblance of disappointment on Ashlyn’s end was undetectable.

“You don’t want to peak at 8. You don’t want to peak at 9,” Cunliffe said, and if nothing else, that may turn out to be the message Ashlyn’s journey conveys the most. Her talent is enormous, but she is not fully formed, a girl who was once so inconsolable on the medal stand following a third-place finish at the 2014 AAU Indoor Track and Field Championships in Houston that she petitioned tossing it in the trash on the way out, softening only hours later while aligning her American Girl doll in a plank position in the hotel lobby.

“I’m not a bronze girl,” she explained. “I like gold.”

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